


Hurry Hard

by amelinazenitram (AmelinaZenitram)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Curling!Peeta, Olympics, mostly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmelinaZenitram/pseuds/amelinazenitram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, I’ll be good. But I still contend that curling is not a real sport.” </p><p>Prim, Johanna, and a reluctant Katniss join a curling club. Peeta is the head instructor. Awkwardness ensues. Modern AU, Everlark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of the upcoming Winter Olympics, I present: Curling!Peeta. This fluffy little plot idea popped into my head in the middle of a game (I actually curl – don’t judge) and wouldn't go away. 
> 
> This is my first (only?) fic. Please be gentle.
> 
> I own nothing – but I borrow with love.
> 
> Many thanks to my dear sister/beta dealan for reaching across fandoms to help me with this.

_“HARD! REAL HARD! YES, KEEP GOING! COME ON, HARD!”_

I awake to the sounds of a man screaming, and wonder what kind of porn Johanna has convinced Prim to watch with her on a Sunday morning. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pad into the living room to find my sister staring intently at the television, her pink snuggie pulled all the way up to her chin. As my eyes adjust to the light, I realize that Johanna is nowhere to be found, and that Prim’s not watching porn, she’s watching…wait, what _is_ she watching?

“Morning, Katniss,” Prim says, not bothering to look away from the screen. “There’s a plate of waffles on the counter if you want them. I was going to make bacon too, but I got kinda distracted…”

“Clearly. How long have you been sitting here?”

“Um, well I think it was the 2nd end when I switched on the TV, and it’s the 6th end now…so maybe an hour? It got really exciting during the 4th end, ‘cause Team Canada stole three from the Norwegians, which is apparently unheard of. I’m still trying to figure out how it works, but it’s oddly mesmeriz- ooh! I can’t believe Jacobs got a triple takeout!”

I don’t have the chance to ask Prim what she meant by anything she just said, because I lose her to the duo of sports commentators that appear on screen.

_“That certainly was an exciting shot by Jacobs, wasn’t it Caesar? I was worried it was a little too tight, but in the end it was perfect. It will be hard for Norway to come back after that one.”_

_“Not exactly, Claudius. Don’t forget that they have the hammer. All they have to do is bury their next one deep in behind Jacobs, and they can put pressure back on the Canadians…”_

A giggle bubbles up without warning. Prim tries to shush me with a glare, but it only makes the compulsion to laugh stronger.

“I’m sorry! I can’t help it. I mean, I woke up thinking you were watching porn, for God’s sake. And seriously, are you even listening to the commentary? Or the grown men screaming ‘Hard!’ at the top of their lungs? It’s like the sexual puns just write themselves!”

“Katniss, get your mind out of the gutter. This is curling, and it’s the Olympics. The players have to yell because there are four other games happening at the exact same time. Besides, the game is like, 200 years old. It’s not like the commentators made up the terminology – they’re just speaking the lingo of the players.”

“How very…cunning of them.”

“Oh my God, get out. You’re ruining my viewing experience.”

I smirk. “What’s there to ruin? You’ve got middle aged men in jester pants playing what looks like shuffleboard on ice and yelling bad sexual innuendos at one another. And - wait, are those brooms? How does this even qualify as a sport, much less an Olympic one?”

Prim adjusts her snuggie with a sigh. “Yes, yes, I get it. You disapprove of any extracurricular activities that wouldn’t give you the skills needed to survive the zombie apocalypse. But that cross-country skiing shooting thingy event isn’t on until 2, so you’ll have to wait. In the meantime, can you keep the snark to yourself while I finish watching this game? Please?” Giving me the best puppy-dog face she can muster, she clears off a space on our tiny couch as a silent invitation for me to join her.

Smiling, I respond with a fake sigh of my own as I head into the kitchen to grab the plate of waffles and a couple of forks. “Okay, I’ll be good. But I still contend that curling is not a real sport.”

“Ha! You have much to learn, young Padawan,” Prim yells from the sofa. “Once you get the hang of it, you’ll get sucked in just like I- oh, nice shot by Norway!”

And here we go.

\---

It’s official: Prim is obsessed.

For the past two weeks, we’ve had pretty much nothing but curling on TV. Not only does she watch every possible Olympic curling match, but she even goes online and starts streaming games through some Canadian sports website. Even Johanna has had to sit through of them, though she’s been surprisingly calm and snark-free about the whole situation. Given that I can’t wrestle control of the remote away from Prim, I might as well watch. But I won’t make it easy.

Cue the questions and commentary.

“So, let me get this straight. The object of the game is to get rocks onto the target.”

“The house, Katniss. That target is called the house. And you don’t just want rocks in the house, you want them as close to the button as possible.”

“The button? Why do they call it a button? Everyone knows the center of a target is called the bulls-eye.”

“Yes, thank you, Robin Hood. But this is curling, not archery.”

“I prefer Merida, if you don’t mind. And believe me, I know this isn’t archery. It’s more like glorified shuffleboard. Seriously, why do they have to slide those rocks down the ice? It would be far more impressive if they threw them instead.”

“Uh, because this isn’t bocce-”

“Another non-sport,“ I point out.

“Stop interrupting! What I meant to say is that those rocks are actually granite, and each one weighs more than forty pounds. And it might look like it’s not a very long distance, but the houses are 150 feet apart. That’s why they slide the rocks instead of tossing them.”

Oh. That actually makes sense. Undeterred, I continue. “Yeah, but what are the brooms for? To make sure the ice is clean and shiny?”

“That’s actually partially true. I saw one game where apparently there was some lint on the ice that the sweepers missed and the rock ended up catching on it and changing direction. Totally ruined the shot.”

“Must be a very fragile game, if a piece of lint can bring the whole thing down,” I say in mock-seriousness.

Prim giggles. “I guess so! But anyway, the players sweep the ice to keep the rock going straight. The sweeping melts the ice a tiny bit, and the lack of friction keeps it sliding in the same direction. As the rock slows down, it starts to curl to the left or right, depending on the way the player threw it. Hence, curling.”

I have to admit that I’m a little impressed that she knows so much about this game after just a couple of weeks. “Wow, Prim. You really are a curling expert.”

“Not really,” she replies. “I think I’ve got the basics, but the strategy is still a bit unclear to me. The commentators keep saying stuff like _‘Jones needs to know her angles’_ and I don’t have a clue what that means. But maybe that’s because I was terrible at Geometry back in high school.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Mrs. Paylor,” I say with a laugh.

Prim laughs along with me, and reaches over to give me a hug. “Thanks, Katniss. I know I’m totally geeking out, but I appreciate you indulging me as I fangirl.”

My sister is adorable.

“As long as you don’t mind me mocking you for fangirling over curling, of all things, go on ahead,” I reply. “But at some point, you will have to surrender control of the television. The Games won’t last forever, you know.”

“Good thing there’s more curling in Canada. There are at least three major tournaments lined up after the Olympics are over!”

“No way, kid,” I say. “I haven’t been able to watch the biathlon once since you discovered this newfound love, and the DVR is starting to fill up. Once the Olympics are over, you’ll have to find somewhere else to watch your precious curling.”

“Actually, that’s a good idea. I wonder if there’s a curling club around here…they’d probably have the games on all the time!”

Something tells me I’m going to regret planting that idea in her head.

\---

The Olympics have come and gone, but Prim’s curling obsession is still going strong. So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s gone looking for opportunities to try curling for herself. Why she feels the need to drag me along with her, however, is a totally different story.

“Katniss! Katniss!” Prim exclaims, waving a piece of paper above her head to get my attention. “You will not believe this – it turns out that there’s a curling club just 15 minutes away from us, and they’re having an open house this Saturday!” Beaming, she shoves the flyer in my face so that I can get a closer look at it.

“Capitol Park Curling Club Open House from 10am to 12pm…$20 for a curling lesson and four-end game. Spots also available for 6 week beginner’s league. Great opportunity to meet new people and try the sport that has taken the Olympics by storm...space is limited, sign up today…” I look up and notice that my sister still has a silly grin plastered on her face. “That’s great, Prim! Sounds like fun.”

“I know, right? I called right away to sign us up. Peeta, the guy who’s organizing the event, was super nice over the phone and started telling me all about the club and the beginner’s league, and –“

“Wait, what? What do you mean you signed ‘us’ up?”

Prim’s still got the smile on her face, but her eyes tell me she knows she’s been busted. “Yeah, I signed up you, me, and Johanna! I figure that it’ll be a great opportunity for us to meet new people. I mean, we moved to Panem what, six months ago? We barely know anyone in the area except Johanna…and she doesn’t even count because she’s our roommate! Besides, you said the open house sounded like fun.”

“Yeah, but I meant fun for _you_. Not me. I’m more partial to the kill-to-survive sports, remember? Your words, not mine,” I point out.

Not to be put off, Prim wields the puppy-dog face once more. “Pleeeeease, Katniss? I’ve already paid to reserve our spot, and I really don’t want to go alone. Or alone with Johanna – she might bring an axe and insist on using it instead of a broom. Also, Peeta sounded cute over the phone…maybe he’s single?”

“You realize that trying to lure me to a curling club with promises of meeting a cute boy isn’t actually going to work, right?”

“Whatever. Come on, Katniss. A little interaction with other humans, male or female, isn’t going to kill you. I really, really want to go, and I really, really want my favorite big sister to be there with me to witness my first steps on the long march to curling Olympic gold.” She grins. “So…?”

Reluctant though I may be, I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “All right, Little Duck.”

Letting out a squeal of delight that only dogs can hear, Prim claps her hands excitedly and engulfs me in a bear hug. “Yay! Thank you! It’s going to be so fun, I can’t wait!”

“Just one question – how on earth did you convince Johanna to come too?”

She shrugs. “That was really easy, actually. Peeta told me that pretty much every curling club you’ll find also functions as a bar.”

“So basically, she’s coming for the alcohol.”

“Yup.”

“At 10 in the morning.”

“Yup.”

“Okay then.”


	2. Chapter 2

We arrive at Capitol Park Curling Club a good thirty minutes early at Prim's insistence, and I am surprised to discover that the parking lot is already more than half full and a line has formed outside the club's entrance. Apparently Prim wasn't the only one who was taken in during the Olympics. Johanna is passed out in the backseat - how she managed to fall asleep during such a short ride is totally beyond me - but Prim practically jumps out of the car before it's come to a complete stop.  
  
"Yay, we're here! Let's go, I want to get a good spot in line." You'd think she was a pre-teen at a One Direction concert rather than a grown woman at a curling club.  
  
I roll my eyes in response."I highly doubt they will turn you away considering that the doors aren't even open yet." Of course, as if on cue, I look up and see that people have started filing into the building. Before my sister can respond, I tell her, "Go on ahead. I still have to wake Sleeping Beauty over here." I gesture to our housemate and the thin line of drool that’s formed on her left cheek. "It'll only take a minute, I promise." Prim nods in assent, and takes off across the parking lot, leaving me to deal with Johanna.  
  
As it happens, Johanna isn't so much of a Sleeping Beauty as she is a sleeping bear; not only does it take me forever to wake her, but when I finally do, I'm graced with exactly the kind of foul language you'd expect to come out of a girl who had been up half the night reblogging dirty gifsets on Tumblr instead of sleeping. By the time I've managed to coax her inside with promises of Irish coffee, the event is about to start.

The room is too crowded for us to go over to where Prim’s sitting, so we opt instead to huddle together by the entrance as we take in our surroundings. Despite the club's modest exterior, it's quite homey. On one end of the room, large leather couches are situated in front of a fireplace, which in turn is flanked by glass display cases showing off various plaques and trophies; above it is a large flat-screen TV that, amusingly enough, is showing the highlights from last night's basketball game (Prim must be so disappointed). On the other end of the room is a full bar, complete with a pool table and an upright piano tucked into the corner. And of course, in the middle, is a clear view of the curling rink, courtesy of the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the center of the room. It looks like there are five lanes in all, and at each one a small monitor is mounted above the window that projects an image of the target on the far end of rink. Prim is seated at one of the five round tables that complete the room.  
  
A bell rings - seriously, are we in an old schoolhouse? - and a scruffy, somewhat hungover-looking man stands up to address the room. "Welcome to Capitol Park Curling Club and our Open House. Uh, the event's organizer seems to be running late, so I've been asked to make some introductions until he gets here. Name's Haymitch, and I'm the club's ice maker...which is why it pains me to see so many of you newbies here today, seeing as you'll probably tear up my rink in ten seconds flat...."  
  
"Great way to welcome us, huh, Kat? Sounds like he doesn't want to be here any more than we do," Johanna notes with a smirk. "Looks like he hit the bar a bit early too. He must know something we don't." A woman next to us tries to shush Jo, but gets a death glare for her efforts. "You know, instead of worrying about me, perhaps you should consider that those stiletto boots you're wearing aren't really appropriate for a venue like this," she says, nodding her head in Haymitch's direction.  
  
The ice maker seems to have some telepathic connection with Jo, as he proceeds to rant about the importance of proper footwear. "If you think I'm gonna let you out on my ice in anything other than a clean pair of sneakers, you might as well leave now because it ain't happening. Don’t care to learn your faces until it’s clear you’re gonna stick around, but I've been staring at your feet since y’all started coming in here and I can already see some red flags. So, lady in the back with the pointy shoes, I hope you brought something else to wear or you're shit out of luck. Don't think I didn't notice," he warns, staring right at the woman who just tried to shush Johanna. A small chuckle ripples through the room as Stiletto Lady huffs out, casting a nasty look at Jo as she leaves. Triumphant, Johanna smiles serenely. "I don’t know why she’s so upset at _me_ ," she muses. "I mean, at least I wore the right shoes."  
  
For a moment it looks like Stiletto Lady isn't the only one about to make an exit. For those not mildly terrified by Haymitch's take-no-prisoners attitude, a number of them appear unsettled by a welcome that is slightly less, well, _welcoming_ than what they had expected from a club that presumably wants to increase its membership. But just as Haymitch is about to launch into another warning rant, the door opens and a tall, blond man laden with white pastry boxes bursts in.  
  
"I am so, so sorry that I'm late, everyone," he says breathlessly as he sheds his coat. "I thought I'd step out really quickly to pick up treats for you all and somehow got swept up into a bakery emergency. But, uh, thank you Haymitch, for holding down the fort while I was gone." Haymitch nods and sits back down, clearly relieved that he no longer has to speak to the group. The blond man grins at him and continues speaking. "I'd like to welcome you all to Capitol and the sport of curling. My name is Peeta Mellark, and I'm one of the volunteer instructors here at the club. I've already spoken to some of you over the phone, and I can already tell that this is going to be a great group. Over the next two hours, we'll be going over how the game works, how to deliver a rock and sweep the ice, and we'll even get you all playing a short game. Hopefully by the end of it you'll be so excited to continue that you'll consider joining the beginner’s league that starts next week!"

I quietly scoff at this comment - of course this all must be some kind of sales pitch - but I guess I'm not quiet enough, because Peeta's gaze darts in my direction and our eyes meet. Blushing, he quickly looks down and adds, "But, um, please don't feel like you're under any pressure to join Capitol Park, or any curling club for that matter. Really, I mean, I hope you guys will love this game as much as I do, but for today, what's most important for me is that you have a safe and fun curling experience." My gut twists unexpectedly at the sincerity in his voice, and can't help but feel a tiny bit guilty about my initial impression of his speech.  
  
Peeta claps his hands as he changes gears, introducing the other instructors, passing around name tags, and distributing waivers to the group. "Not that I'm going to let any of you fall, of course," he says as he hands me one. "But everyone has to complete a waiver before going on the ice, even the members. Curling isn't a dangerous sport, but I guess the folks at the top of the food chain can never be too careful!"  
  
Once the administrative stuff is out of the way (and Haymitch has approved of our shoes), we're split into five groups and sent out onto the ice. Each "sheet" of ice has an assigned instructor; Johanna and I are placed in Peeta’s group, while Prim ends up on the sheet next to us with a bronze-haired Adonis named Finnick. The latter, incidentally, looks more like a professional model than a curler. When he demonstrates how to deliver a rock, it’s kind of difficult to ignore how good his ass looks in his curling pants as he glides down the ice in a perfect lunge position. I think I even hear a couple girls in our group sigh in appreciation.

Jo nudges me as we line up to try throwing rocks for the first time. "Is it just me, or are these curling dudes surprisingly hot?" she asks. "I thought we'd be surrounded by a bunch of old farts. Remind me to thank your sister."  
  
"Maybe it's all part of the plan to get us to sign up," I reply. "There's no way the average age of the members is less than 50."  
  
"Honestly, if it means spending my Saturdays with gentlemen this attractive, I couldn't fucking care less. Between that and the ten taps they have at the bar, I'm sold." With that, she steps out onto the rink and takes her turn. While most of the rocks have barely made it halfway, Johanna sends a perfect shot flying down the ice so quickly that it hits the boards on the other end with a satisfying _thunk_. Everyone pauses and turns to our sheet to see who was responsible. A few people even applaud.

Jo just shrugs. “My mom might have been a competitive curler when she was in college, and I might have been in a Little Rocks league when I was a kid. Maybe.”

Peeta whistles, impressed. “Looks like we’ve got a ringer!” he exclaims. “Johanna, right? That was fantastic, perfect takeout weight. Next time, try and see if you can hit the button. I’d like to see how you do at controlling the weight of your shots.” Winking, he sends her to the back of the line and turns to me. “Okay, Katniss, you’re up.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to do what she just did,” I say with my arms folded in front of me. Leave it to Johanna to put the pressure on without even trying.

“Unless you, too, come from a secret line of competitive curlers, I promise that I won’t think less of you if your shot doesn’t make it past the hog line,” Peeta replies smoothly. “Johanna’s the only one here who’s managed to do so today, and she has a clear advantage. Now come on, let’s see what you can do.”

As it turns out, I actually do pretty well. My shot doesn’t quite make it onto the target, but it lands perfectly on the center line. Peeta eyes me carefully as I get up. “That is a beautiful center guard, right at the top of the house,” he says. “People might start to think we’ve planted you here, with the shots you and your friend are making. You sure you’ve never played before?”

I scowl a bit at the compliment and look away. “I swear that I didn’t even know what curling was until about three weeks ago. I’m just here because my sister asked me to come,” I say, gesturing to Prim, who waves at us from her spot in line. “I’m more into…outdoor pursuits, to be honest.”

“Well, you’re a natural. Your balance is so good that it barely looked like you needed the broom to keep you stable. And your delivery was really smooth considering you’re sliding out on a piece of cardboard covered in packing tape. If you were wearing proper curling shoes, you’d probably have a lot more power…” Peeta trails off and rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Sorry, I’m rambling. But yeah, that was a really nice shot.” He smiles shyly as he lets me head to the back of the line, where Jo is waiting for me with an evil grin on her face.

“Never pegged you for a teacher’s pet, Katniss. With the way he was looking at you, it looked like he was about to drop the rest of us to give you a private lesson, if you know what I mean,” she says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Shut up, Jo!” I hiss. “He was just being nice since you decided to show us all up. Speaking of which, how is it that you never told us you actually knew how to play? Is this your secret shame? Afraid that word would get out and ruin your street cred?”

Johanna just rolls her eyes. “Because, Brainless, it’s much more fun seeing you scrape your jaw off the floor in admiration of my curling prowess. Anyway, it’s no big deal. The last time I played was in middle school, and that was – Christ, am I that old? - almost fifteen years ago. Most of the time I was throwing stones half the size of the ones we’re using now…that’s why they were called ‘Little Rocks,’ you know?”  She tries to hide it, but I see her smile. “But hey, it’s good to know I’ve still got it.”

After everyone’s had a chance to practice throwing stones a couple times, Peeta goes over the finer points of sweeping. He demonstrates the best way to grip the broom and cautions us not to forget to look up as we walk/sweep down the ice. “Everyone always focuses on the person delivering the stone,” he says, “but good sweeping is essential in making sure it actually ends up in the right place!”

Too bad I don’t enjoy sweeping very much. It feels really awkward trying to walk and sweep simultaneously, and I almost trip over my broom a couple times. When we reach the end of the sheet, I stop to figure it out while everyone else sweeps their way back to the other side.

Peeta appears beside me. “Here - let me see your broom,” he says. He stands next to me to model how to carry it, and passes it back to me. I try to mimic him, but it still doesn’t feel right. “Ah, um, may I?” he asks awkwardly, shifting behind me and reaching around to get my arms into the right position. “Your best bet is to avoid letting the broom cross your body. You’ll still be able to apply a good amount of pressure to the ice, and it’s a lot less messy that way if you wipe out…you know, one less thing to trip over.”

I suddenly feel a bit flushed. On the one hand, I have to wonder if this is all really necessary.  It’s like we’re in a scene in a bad rom-com, and he’s showing me how to play pool, or bowl, or something else that’s equally cheesy. But another, tiny part of me is fixated on the fact that Peeta feels really warm – almost comforting – and I have to work hard to resist the temptation to sink into him a little. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

“No problem. We, uh, should get back to the rest of the group.” Peeta hesitates for a moment before he steps away, and the chill in the air returns with a vengeance.

The session ends with the instructors dividing us into teams and having us play a short game. The instructors stay in the house and “skip” – which strikes me as odd because they’re just standing there and not skipping at all – while the rest of us rotate through the other three positions. We spend more time trying to get the rocks across the line than we do trying to win…but even I’ll admit that it’s pretty fun.

Before I know it, two hours have passed and we’re heading off the ice and back into the club’s main room. “We call this area the ‘warm room’ for a reason,” Finnick says with a grin. “It’s always good to sit and have a beer and a chat after being on the ice for so long.”

Peeta nods in agreement. “Absolutely. The best part of curling is that it’s a social game. As a point of etiquette, it’s customary that you sit with the people you played with, so I encourage you to find the table that has the same number as your sheet. The winners usually also buy the losing team a drink, but I’ll leave that up to you.  And, as you probably remember given the way I burst in late, I also took the liberty of providing baked treats for you guys. So grab a drink and a snack, find your table, and get to know each other!”

Heh. He makes it sound so easy. Socializing is not really my strong suit, so I amble to the food table as slowly as possible in an effort to avoid having to interact with anyone new. I peruse the various options, settling on a cheese bun that is so good I’m sure I’ll be having dreams about it later. I’m contemplating hoarding the rest of them in my purse when Prim runs up and wraps her arm around me.

“That was harder than I expected it was going to be, but I had so much fun! What about you?”

“Me? Oh, yeah, it was good. I might even grant curling status as a semi-sport after trying it out for myself,” I tease.

“Just a semi-sport? That hurts, Katniss.” I freeze at the sound of a voice behind me. I turn to see Peeta, his blue eyes twinkling despite the fake frown he’s got on his face. “And here I was, hoping that I’d done my job right.”

“Oh, you’ve done a great job with this open house,” Prim says. “It’s just that Katniss doesn’t consider anything to be a sport that doesn’t involve fighting or survival skills. Deeming curling to be a semi-sport is actually high praise coming from her, so you must have made quite the impression as her instructor! Right, Kat?”

Peeta doesn’t seem to notice the dagger eyes I’m giving Prim, and just laughs in response. “Your sister is actually a natural curler. I didn’t do a thing, she picked it up right away.” As he turns to face me, his demeanor changes slightly. “I, uh, was going to ask if you were interested in signing up for the beginner’s league. It’s only for a few weeks, but if you like it you could become a full member next season. I think you’ve got a lot of potential, if you’re up for picking up a new semi-sport…” Peeta trails off slightly, looking up at me hopefully.

Prim doesn’t hesitate to respond – for both of us. “That sounds like a great idea. When does it start again?”

I whip my head to face Prim, suddenly feeling annoyed. “Prim, you know I can’t just start throwing money at random extracurricular activities.” Prim winces at my outburst, and I immediately feel ashamed to have jumped into a conversation of this nature in a public place. I quickly collect myself and turn to Peeta apologetically. “Look, Peeta, I had fun, and Prim’s welcome to do what she wants, but I’m not sure if signing up is a good idea for me at the moment.”

Peeta nods in understanding. “Hey, no problem. I’m really sorry I put you on the spot like that - it wasn’t appropriate of me. But if it helps, curling is actually a really inexpensive sport to pick up. The club provides rubber grippers and slip-on sliders for your shoes, as well as the brooms, free of charge. A lot of our members don’t even bother to purchase their own equipment.”

He hands Prim a flyer, but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “It’s $120 for six three hour sessions, plus another $30 for a two-day beginner’s bonspiel if you decide to try your hand at competing at the end of the season. If you do the math, you’ll find it’s a pretty good value, all things considered, but in the end it’s up to you. Just…think about it? Either way, I’m glad you had fun today.”

Peeta backs away from the table with another small smile, taking his leave. Prim smiles at him in return as she grabs me and guides me to a quiet corner on the opposite end of the warm room. As soon as we’re out of earshot, she turns to me with a steely look that I only ever see when she’s really pissed off.

“Listen to me,” she says in a half-whisper. “I understand that you worry about our finances 24 hours a day, but I’m just as much of an adult as you are, and believe it or not, I pay attention too. And what I can tell you is this: spending 120 dollars to keep you from staying holed up in your room for the next few weekends is not a waste of money, it’s an investment in your sanity. A good one, from what I can see.”

Before I can get a word of protest in, she continues. “You’re not happy, Kat. All you do is go to work and come home. I don’t even remember the last time you went out with me and Jo. And yeah, I know that curling was my silly idea and not yours, but I saw you out there today. You _were_ good, and you were having fun. And the people here are incredibly nice. And, contrary to what you might think, we’re not destitute. This isn’t like how things were after Dad died. You’ve got a good job, I’ve got money saved, and my scholarship covers almost all my expenses. I’ll even pay your league fee if it’s that big a deal. So why don’t you stop playing martyr for once and allow yourself to have fun? It’s like the geekiest possible thing we could be doing, curling. But it could be good for you.”

For a moment I stand there, stunned. Prim’s right. We’re not rich, but we do have disposable income for what feels like the first time in our lives. I guess I’m just not used to it. As for the rest of her speech…I don’t really feel like getting into all that, not here anyway. “I’m sorry, Prim. I guess I just felt put-off by Peeta’s sales pitch –“

“Bullshit, Katniss. He’s not trying to sell you something, he _likes_ you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s just friendly.”

“Yeah. Friendly, as in, not a jerky salesman type. Friendly, meaning, someone you could become friends with. You need more friends. And if you ask me, you could do a lot worse.” Prim’s expression softens as she starts steering me back toward the bar. “Look, I know I went a little crazy on you just now, but it’s only because I love you. We can talk about this later if you want. But for now, let’s get back to the group, okay?”

I nod, grateful to let the subject drop for the time being. We walk over to get some drinks, and find Johanna perched on a barstool next to Haymitch, chatting as if they’ve been friends for years.

“Hey there, Brainless! I was wondering where you two had gone off to.” Jo raises her glass in salute and drains the rest of her beer, then jumps down from her seat to join us. “I was just talking to Mr. Iceman here. He knows some of the people from the club in my hometown, so we were swapping stories. Got the scoop on some of the other club members too. Turns out they’re pretty competitive regionally and looking recruit some new blood. Guess we’re it, huh?” she says with a laugh.

“Why, you actually thinking of joining?” I ask.

“Yeah, I figure it’s not a bad idea. I talked to Finnick – who is hilarious, by the way –and he said they’re pretty desperate to find women willing to join the mixed competitive league. They’ve been good about recruiting younger guys, but up until recently their club’s president – something Snow – was a real jackass about giving ice-time to the ladies, and a whole bunch of them jumped ship. Snow’s gotten the boot, but they’re still only left with octogenarians who have no interest in competing.”

“Jesus, Jo, how do you know so much after sitting here for ten minutes?”

“I told you, I talked to Finnick. The guy’s like a den of secrets. Between him and Haymitch, you can probably learn everything there is to know about everyone here. Maybe I should have asked him about Peeta for you, huh, Kat?” She ignores the scowl I give her in return. “Anyway, Finnick told me that because of my experience, I can probably get into the mixed competitive group no problem, and that I can even negotiate a lower fee since it’s nearly the end of the season. Better yet, I’ll crash the beginner’s league for kicks so that I can score some practice ice on the side…”

“Wow,” Prim marvels. “Never thought I’d see the day when Johanna Mason would willingly get up before noon on a Saturday.”

Jo smiles. “What can I say, Primmy? You inspired me. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to pass up an opportunity to watch Katniss flirt ineptly with a certain blond instructor.”

I roll my eyes. “There has been no flirting. And I love how you assume I’m signing up.”

“Please. I know Prim’s game, and I’m willing to bet that you two were off in a corner somewhere having a heart to heart about how you have no life. You’re going to cave, because she’s doing it, because _I’m_ doing it, and because it’s depressing how little you get out. And because if you don’t, we’re going to make Saturday mornings very unpleasant for you for the next six weeks.”

Prim remains silent, if only because she promised not to push the issue with me. But the hopeful look that she’s desperately trying to keep off her face makes it clear that she wholeheartedly agrees with our roommate. I’m not one who typically gives into peer pressure, but I have a feeling Jo will make good on her threat. I can only imagine what methods of torture she already has planned in anticipation of my refusal.

Basically, I’m doomed. Giving in is probably safer.

“Fine, fine! I’ll join,” I say exasperatedly. “But I’m not buying shoes, or a broom, or any of that shit. Six weeks, and you stop bothering me. Deal?”

Prim and Johanna exchange a look. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olympic coverage of curling starts tomorrow morning...just so everyone is aware!
> 
> Feedback always appreciated. Thank you for reading :)


	3. Chapter 3

Johanna, Prim, and I head to the club early the following Saturday, expecting to find a scene similar to that of the Open House. But when we walk in, I’m pleasantly surprised to discover that it’s pretty sedate compared to what it was like the previous week. There are a few people who are already there, but it’s nothing like the crowd I had been bracing myself for.

I almost think I might be able to handle meeting new people after all. Almost.

“Hey, you made it!” I turn and see Peeta walking toward us with a huge grin on his face. Is he always this cheery in the morning? “I saw your name on the sign-up list, but I wasn’t sure if you’d really come – thought I might have scared you off.”

I shrug. “I’m not totally convinced that this whole curling thing is gonna work out long term, but you know, peer pressure,” I say, gesturing to my companions.

“Luckily she’s more scared of us than she is of you, Peeta,” Jo quips with a wink. “But I think it’ll be up to you to convince her to keep at it.”

I fight the urge to attack my housemate and try to change the subject. “Right, well, I’m sure we have some forms to fill out and some fees to pay, yes? I want to get that out of the way before the session starts.”

“Oh, right, sure. Just follow me and I’ll get you three squared away,” Peeta replies, and we head over to his table. Once we’ve signed a couple pieces of paper and handed over our fees, he points us in the direction of the locker rooms so that we can put our stuff away. “If you want, you’ve still got time for breakfast too. There’s free coffee and tea, and I brought more pastries for everyone.”

My ears perk up when he mentions baked goods.

“Wow, that’s really generous of you, Peeta,” Prim notes. “You guys think of everything, don’t you?”

 “I went to enough events in college to know that free food is a powerful tool in persuading even the most disinterested parties to attend,” he responds. Peeta turns to me, casting a sidelong glance in my direction. “I hope you’re not just here for the food,” he jokes.

 “Guilty as charged,” I reply. “But if you tell me you brought cheese buns like last time, I might actually look forward to curling with you for the next few weeks. Those things were magical.”

“Cheese buns, huh? You’re in luck. Or am I the lucky one?”

Wait, what? What the hell does that even mean?

When I don’t immediately continue our banter, Peeta's face flashes with embarrassment – or is that disappointment? - before his smile returns. “Well, it looks like more people are coming in, so I’d better leave you ladies to it,” he says. “We’ll start in a few minutes, so feel free to make yourselves comfortable.” And with that, he heads back to the entrance to greet the next wave of arrivals.

Prim turns to me and sighs loudly, so as to signal her frustration at my social ineptitude. “How are you capable of standing in front of a classroom of kids all day, and still somehow are unable to carry on an conversation with people your own age?”

I ignore her and reach for a cheese bun, stuffing it into my face so that I don’t have to answer.

Johanna grabs a danish. “I told you I wouldn’t miss this, Kat,” she says with a smirk. “They might as well put up a sign that says, ‘Come for the food, stay for the social awkwardness.’ Watching you out in the wild is like a National Geographic special. It’s amazing.”

This is going to be a long morning.

\---

I spend a good part of the session doing my utmost to avoid contact with Prim, Johanna, and – to be perfectly honest – Peeta. It’s not that I don’t think he’s a nice guy, but I could really do without Jo’s harassment or Prim’s sisterly lectures. So when it comes time to split into groups for our first lesson, I slip away from my housemates and attach myself to a group led by a soft-spoken instructor named Madge.

The first hour is surprisingly, blessedly, quiet. It’s clear that while Madge is a bit reserved, she definitely knows what she’s doing. She runs through the lesson in a pretty businesslike manner, giving a brief recap of what we learned at the Open House and doing a couple demonstrations on the proper way to release the rock. But aside from answering questions or offering feedback on our sweeping and delivery, she doesn’t engage us much in conversation. It’s a bit of a relief, really.  

Not having to talk allows me to concentrate more on learning the game, but it also affords me an opportunity to observe the other new curlers out on the ice. I have to admit, it’s a pretty mixed bag. My group includes a red-headed couple named Darius and Lavinia (the former of whom is Scottish and is hoping that translates into some kind of innate curling ability), a college student named Cato (whose obsession with curling clearly rivals Prim’s, given that he’s sporting a brand-new broom and curling shoes), a pair of 20-something identical twins whose names I keep forgetting, a high-school lacrosse coach named Brutus, and his 15-year old son, Marvel (who, based on the constant texting, doesn’t seem to be there by choice). I look around a bit more to see if I can get a glimpse of how Prim and Jo are doing, but catch Peeta’s gaze instead. He offers a smile and a wave before turning to help one of the folks in his group.

I awkwardly wave back in return, but I don’t think he sees.

After the lesson is up, our group is split into teams and we’re given a chance to play against each other in a full game. Cato, Darius, Lavinia, and I are placed on one team, and Brutus, Marvel, and the twins are on the other. “Don’t worry about who wins or loses,” Madge cautions. “I’ll be here to help both teams with strategy and all that stuff, but we won’t be focusing on that for another couple of weeks. Instead, you should concentrate on learning how to communicate with your teammates.”

It’s clear from the moment that the game begins that communication is going to be a struggle for us. Actually, scratch that. Darius, Lavinia, and I work together fairly well. Darius has a wonderful, self-effacing sense of humor that balances nicely with Lavinia’s more serious demeanor, and both of them are encouraging without being too pushy. Together, we make a pretty decent team.

Cato, on the other hand, is a complete nightmare. He approaches our little scrimmage with so much intensity that you’d think he’s been training his entire life for this moment. To be fair, he’s a pretty good player – even if he doesn’t seem capable of making any shot other than a takeout – but his high skill level relative to the others here only makes him that much more obnoxious. When one of us makes a shot, he crows as if it would have been a spectacular failure if not for his sweeping. And when we miss – which is often, since, you know, we’re beginners – he completely freaks out, until Madge threatens to take him off the ice for “not embracing the spirit of the game.” He relaxes a bit after that, but I have serious concerns that he’ll snap his new broom in half before the league is over.

By the final end, we’ve all just about had it with Cato and have made a collective mental note to avoid any group with him in it for the next five weeks. Still, somehow we’ve managed to keep the score pretty close – we’re only down by one, and we have the advantage of throwing the last rock of the game.

If only Cato would keep is damn mouth shut.

“Okay, so Lavinia throws really light, so we’re going to have to sweep to make sure her rocks make it into the house,” Cato says emphatically as Lavinia prepares her shot.

“Cato, Darius wants a guard. We already have two rocks in the house, and the other team only has one. We have to protect those points,” I point out, trying to stay calm.

“Darius doesn’t know shit about strategy. We need to be aggressive!”

Thankfully, Lavinia takes her shot, allowing me to ignore his comment as we follow her stone down the ice. Unfortunately, it looks like Lavinia overheard Cato’s criticism of her delivery, because her shot has a lot more power behind it than we really need.

“It’s moving pretty fast!” I yell to Darius. “What do you want to do?”

“Plan B - sweep it!” He shouts back. “Let’s see if we can knock the other team’s rock out of play.”

I still really don’t like sweeping, but I understand the logic behind Darius’ call, so I press the broom to the ice and sweep as hard as I can while still keeping up with the stone.

“Come on, sweep harder!” Cato yells as we make our way down the ice.

“I’m doing the best that I can! You’re not even sweeping in front of the rock!” I bite back.

“If this shot misses, it’s all on you,” he hisses.

Not willing to give him the satisfaction, I try to block out his rants and sweep as hard as I can. But I’m so angry at Cato that I miss Darius’ shout of warning amid the din of voices yelling in the rink.

“Watch out!”

For the first time since Lavinia took her shot, I look up…just in time to see Cato trip over a rock. He manages to keep from hitting the ground, but his broom flies out of his grip and into my path in the process. The moments that follow feel like they’re in slow motion, and yet there’s nothing I can do to stop my feet from flying out from under me.

And then, blackness.

\---

I’m only out for a few seconds, but when I come to, I see four pairs of concerned blue eyes staring at me.

Prim and Peeta…and Prim and Peeta.

“Katniss! Are you okay?” Prim says worriedly. I’m still waiting for the room to stop spinning, so I don’t respond. All I can think about is how much my ass hurts.

I start to get up, but Peeta stops me. “Hey, careful – don’t move too quickly.” He scoops me up off the ice and carries me to a nearby bench. “That was a pretty epic fall,” he says, trying to keep the situation light. “What happened?”

“Fucking Cato,” I mutter quietly. “It’s my fault - I should have looked up like you guys keep telling us. I just got distracted, and then he fell, and then I fell…” I trail off, losing my trail of thought.

“That’s not important,” Prim interjects. “What’s important is how you’re feeling. Any nausea? You suddenly feeling tired? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three. And I’m fine,” I say, waving her off. “A little dizzy, but I’ll be okay. Just let me sit here for a minute and then we can finish our game-“

“No way,” Peeta and Prim say in unison. I look up, startled. Prim fixes me with a stare. “In my professional capacity as a nurse-in-training, I am benching you until you’ve been seen by a doctor.” 

“Prim’s right,” Peeta agrees. “That fall knocked you out, even if only for a moment. Besides, the game’s over – Madge ended it as soon as you fell. It’s all for fun, anyway.”

I look in the direction of my teammates. Darius and Lavinia just look relieved that I appear to be okay, while Cato stands off to the side, apparently unsure if he should feel annoyed that we technically lost, or guilty for having caused my fall.

Darius smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry, lass – we’ll get them next time, right?”

Cato looks up as if tempted to chime in, but a pointed look from Madge shuts him up. Serves him right.

Peeta and Prim walk me back into the warm room, where Jo is already waiting with our coats and keys. “You’re on fire today, Kat! You got some serious air time on that fall of yours. It was like a movie moment,” she notes with a smirk.

“Thanks, Jo. I thought I heard you cackling in the background somewhere,” I reply sardonically. “Nice to see that my misfortunes never fail to bring you joy.”

Jo just laughs. “And it’s nice to see that your fall didn’t injure your sense of sarcasm. Now come on, let’s get you to the doctor.” She turns to Peeta. “Thanks for your help, Blondie,” she says. “We’ll take it from here. You go on back, you’ve got other curlers to take care of.”

Peeta looks uncertainly through the window at the group of curlers on the ice, and then back to the three of us. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right? If you guys want to keep playing, I’m happy to take Katniss to the hospital or wherever she needs to go.”

I shake my head, offering a weak smile of gratitude. “No, that’s okay, Peeta. Thanks for your help though - I appreciate it.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, please let me know if you ladies need anything. I’m happy to help in any way I can. And, uh, keep me posted, okay?”

“All right. Bye, Peeta.”

“Bye, Katniss. Prim, Jo – take care of her.”

Jo gives a mock salute. “Aye aye, captain.” Peeta smiles as he slowly makes his way back toward the rink, watching us as we make our exit.

 Prim helps me into the car and Johanna gets behind the wheel. “You know,” she teases as she starts the car, “you didn’t need to pull the whole damsel-in-distress routine to get Peeta to like you. Mind you, he clearly has a hero complex the size of Mars, but I’m pretty sure he wanted in your pants before you went and got all concussed.”

Prim giggles. I scowl. “Just shut up and drive, Jo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In curling news: Canada beat Norway 10-4 today. The Norwegians' curling pants are covered in psychedelic flowers. Just FYI.
> 
> Feedback always appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

Four weeks.

It’s only a mild concussion, Dr. Aurelius tells me, but the long and the short of it is that he “highly recommends” I stay off the ice for up to four weeks in order to reduce the risk of re-injuring myself. I should be happy that I haven’t sustained any brain damage or whatnot, but all I can really think about is that by the time I’m fully cleared to play, the season will practically be over.

What a waste.

Armed with this new information, I head to Capitol straight from school on Monday to see if I can talk to someone about getting a refund. But within the first few moments of my conversation with Seneca, the membership manager, I get a sinking feeling that tells me that's not going to happen.  
  
"I’m very sorry, Ms. Everdeen, but if you read the policy at the bottom of the membership form you signed, it clearly states that refunds cannot be given after the league has started."  
  
"I get that, but I was injured during the first session. And I've been told that it could take weeks for me to heal fully."  
  
Seneca does not look convinced. "And yet you were perfectly fine to drive here today."  
  
 "Well, the doctor said that I could get back into things as long as I wasn't having headaches or feeling dizzy, but he is concerned that getting back onto the ice right away might increase my risk of re-injury, so -"  
  
"So what you're telling me is that you're feeling better and physically capable of playing, but you don't feel like it anymore."  
  
I remain silent. Technically, he's right. I don't want to tell him the other reason I don't want to play; I've humiliated myself enough in front of these people. But the way he's putting it, I'm just looking for an easy refund.  
  
Seneca smiles, and I know I've lost. "I can see where you are coming from, but at the end of the day your unwillingness or inability to play is not our problem."  
  
What. an. asshole.

"But I was injured playing on your ice!" I say heatedly. The compunction to burn this guy in effigy is increasing by the moment.  
  
"Yes, and you also signed a waiver absolving the club of any responsibility for injuries you might sustain while playing." Clearly he's had talks like this before. "I really am very sorry Katniss, but those are the club's rules. I wish I could be more helpful."  
  
Too frustrated to say anything more, I just nod curtly at him and burst out of the office with a desire to do nothing more than head to the nearest archery range and shoot some Seneca Crane-shaped dummies. I'm so distracted that I run smack into someone who's just walked into the club.  
  
Because, you know, it would be awesome if I injured myself again at this God-forsaken place. Ugh.  
  
I brace for another fall but don't hit the ground. Instead, I find myself looking into a familiar pair of blue eyes, his strong arms wrapped around me as he tries to keep me steady. "Are you all right?" Peeta asks, wearing the same concerned expression he did just a couple days ago. "Head injuries are serious business, you know. I'd hate to see you get hurt again."  
  
He helps me back up to a full standing position and I brush myself off. I can't help but roll my eyes as I mentally replay the conversation I've just had with Seneca. "Yeah, well, try telling your membership manager that. My doctor's practically sidelined me for the next few weeks, which means I won't be able to participate in the league. But Seneca refuses to give me a refund."  
  
Peeta's brow furrows slightly at my statement. "Can you tell me what he said?"  
  
"He basically implied that I was just using the concussion as an excuse to get my money back, and that the club's policy is that no refunds are given after league play begins. And since I don't have some doctor's note saying I can't play - not like it would matter, mind you - it looks like I'm out 120 bucks." I heave my shoulders with a defeated sigh. "Sorry to dump all of this on you. It's my fault, really. I should never have let Prim and Jo convince me to join in the first place."  
  
"Hey, none of that," Peeta says reassuringly. "This isn't your fault at all. As for Seneca, I'm sure I can get him to make some kind of compromise-"  
  
"No! I mean, that's okay," I reply hastily. "You really don't have to do anything. Truth is, I _can_ technically play, but -" God, I can't believe I'm telling him this "- my doctor says I'd have to wear some stupid helmet on the ice until I’m back to 100 percent, and I'm too vain to suck it up and deal with any potential harassment I'd be subjected to as a result. I guess I thought quitting would be an easier way to preserve my dignity." I look up at Peeta in alarm. "Please don't tell Seneca I said that."  
  
To my surprise and relief, Peeta doesn't laugh at my confession. "Your secret is safe with me, Katniss," he says seriously. He casts a glance at Seneca's office, then turns back to me. "But if it's okay with you, I really would like to talk to Seneca about your situation. I’ve known this guy for years. He's still adjusting to the changes the club's gone through since Snow left, and he needs some...guidance once in a while, is all."  
  
"Peeta, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but you’re not under any obligation to help me."  
  
"It's no trouble, honestly. I'd just hate to see you quit over something like this without seeing if I can help. I feel like I kinda had a hand in pressuring you to join too. Think of it as a way to ease my guilty conscience," he says with a smile. "I insist. Just make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."  
  
Peeta strides purposefully into Seneca's office. Not wanting to feel like a total creeper by standing by the door, instead I wander over to the piano by the bar and plink out a few notes before having a seat. I start with a couple simple pieces, sticking with the instrumental part. Even though it's been years since I've played, it comes back to me quickly.

After a few minutes of playing, something out the window catches my eye and I look up to discover that it’s snowing. I'm suddenly reminded of one of my dad's favorite songs. _"This one’s deceptively sad,"_ he’d said when he taught it to me, _"but I think of it every time the snow falls."_ As I stare out the window, I have this strange, unexpected desire to hear that song again.

I look around to examine my surroundings. Peeta and Seneca are still talking in the office, and the club is empty at this time of day - most people are still at work, I guess - so I don't have to worry about an audience. Good.

Feeling emboldened, I sing to myself quietly as I play.

_I wish you bluebirds in the spring_  
 _To give your heart a song to sing_  
 _And then a kiss, but more than this_  
 _I wish you love_  
  
 _And in July a lemonade_  
 _To cool you in some leafy glade_  
 _I wish you health, and more than wealth_  
 _I wish you love_  
  
 _My breaking heart and I agree_  
 _That you and I could never be_  
 _So with my best, my very best_  
 _I set you free_  
  
 _I wish you shelter from the storm_  
 _A cozy fire to keep you warm_  
 _But most of all, when snowflakes fall_  
 _I wish you love_

_But most of all, when snowflakes fall_  
 _I wish you love_

  
I'm so wrapped up in the memories of my father and I singing together at our old piano that I don't notice that Peeta has finished up his conversation with Seneca and has made his way to my spot by the bar. "Wow, that was beautiful," he says softly.  
  
I startle at the sound of his voice, turning abruptly to face him. "Oh! I'm so sorry. I, uh, thought you were still talking to Seneca," I stammer. I should have realized this was going to happen.  
  
"Don't be! If anything, I should be apologizing for interrupting you. I mean, you're amazing."    
  
I don't really know what to say, so the compliment hangs in the air as I stare at him dumbly. Thankfully, Peeta saves me from having to respond. Clearing his throat, he says, "Well, anyway, I'm sorry that took so long. But I talked to Seneca, and I'd like to propose an arrangement that could work out for all parties involved."  
  
I nod, and he takes that as his cue to continue. "Okay, so you have five weeks to go. I didn't get into the details of why you feel, um, uncomfortable with being in a group setting, so I convinced him to offer you the option of individual instruction until you get the all-clear from your doctor. If you're up for it by then, the club is also willing to waive the fee for the beginner's bonspiel at the end of the season." Peeta pauses for a moment to let me process what he's just told me. "So, what do you think? You'd have to do your sessions during the week instead of the weekends and you wouldn't really have the same social opportunities that you would as part of a full league, but private coaching is actually a lot more expensive, so money-wise you're getting a pretty amazing deal."  
  
I stop to consider his offer. It’s incredibly generous. I'd be getting my money's worth for sure, and on top of that I'd be spared the need to interact with a large group of people. Plus, I’m not on the hook for any after-school activities until the spring, so I could come straight here after school. This might actually work.

"Wait a minute," I say. "Who would be coaching me? If you say Seneca, I'm walking out right now."  
  
"Um, actually, that would be me."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Peeta shifts nervously from side to side. "I have a really flexible work schedule and I'm here practically every day. On Tuesdays I practice with my team from 5 to 7, but we could meet after since there's no league play that night. On other days, we could practice in the afternoons before the evening leagues begin. No one else is here, so you wouldn't have to worry about people seeing you in your helmet, and, well..." He trails off, looking up at me apologetically. "I'm sorry I couldn't get you your refund. I understand if you say no, I just thought-"  
  
"No, no, it's fine," I say quickly. "I, it's just, I mean - crap, why am I incapable of speaking today? Let me start over." I take a breath and resume. "Thank you, Peeta. I think we can make that work."  
  
Peeta exhales like he's been holding his breath for the past two minutes. "Great! We'll have to work out the details, but it's pretty easy for me to reserve practice ice time so we can work around your schedule. Is this time of day convenient for you?"

"Yeah, actually. I'm usually done with school stuff by 3 or 4."  
  
"School? You a teacher, or a student?"

"Teacher, though I work with middle schoolers and a lot of them are already taller than me, so sometimes I feel like a student." I quirk my eyebrows at him in question. "What about you? What kind of job allows you to spend so much time here at the club?"  
  
"Me? Oh, sorry. I, uh, thought that was kind of obvious," Peeta says awkwardly. "I work at a bakery."  
  
I smack myself internally for not putting two and two together. "And here I was thinking you were extra generous for buying treats for us every week," I joke lamely. "What's the name of the bakery? I need to know where I can go for a cheese bun fix."  
  
Peeta doesn't respond, and instead gestures to the large banner hanging on the far wall of the curling rink. _"Mellark and Sons Bakery and Cafe,"_ it reads. _"Proud sponsor of Capitol Park Curling Club."_

"It's a family business," he says simply.  
  
Mellark. Peeta Mellark. He must think I'm an idiot.  
  
"In case it wasn't obvious, I'm not from around here," I mumble.  
  
"Don't worry," he replies, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter. My embarrassment now borders on indignation. "I'm not laughing at you, I swear-"  
  
"Sure you aren't," I shoot back, my arms folded in front of me.  
  
Peeta composes himself. "No, really, I'm not. I'm laughing because I can just see the look of horror my mom would have on her face if she were here to witness this conversation. Though thank goodness she isn't," he adds hastily. "She just has this inflated sense our how important the bakery is to the community, and assumes everyone knows who we are. And here you are, innocently dashing all those expectations. It's kind of awesome." His admission puts me at ease, and I smile in spite of myself.  
  
Changing the subject before things get awkward again, we chat about our respective schedules, agreeing to meet twice a week for 1 to 2 hours. Peeta also invites me to come in on the odd Saturday so that I can observe game play. "You can't really learn the strategy through private coaching," he laments. "At least this way you can keep learning, and still socialize with everyone afterward." I can’t say I’m all that keen on that last bit, but I appreciate his invitation.  
  
We continue to discuss the logistics of our arrangement, but soon enough we drift from curling business and onto other topics. Awkward moments notwithstanding, Peeta is actually really easy to talk to. He’s in the middle of explaining why he's named after a kind of bread when look up at the clock and realize that I've been chatting with him for over an hour. "Shit, look at the time!" I exclaim. "You've been so busy fixing all my problems, you haven't even had a chance to practice or do whatever it is you came here to do," I say by way of an apology.  
  
"Believe me, it's no trouble," he says. "I'm just glad I was able to help. And I, uh, I'm really looking forward to working with you. I think this could be really good."  
  
"Me, too," I admit. "Just promise you won't laugh at me too much for wearing a helmet, or I'll have to sic Johanna on you."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," he replies easily. "So I'll see you tomorrow?"  
  
"Yeah, tomorrow." Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach over and give him a quick hug. "Thanks again for everything. I owe you one."  
  
I run out of the club, not wanting to look at Peeta's face in case he thinks my hugging him was totally inappropriate. What was I thinking? I’m not a hugger. And we've only known each other for what, three days? Still, I can't help but look back as I brush the snow off my windshield. Through the snowflakes I see that he's still standing at the entrance, a shy smile gracing his features, like he's waiting to make sure I'm safely ensconced in my car before he goes back inside. I give him one more wave, yell at him to go inside, and step into my car. A strange feeling of warmth that I can't quite identify runs through me as I turn the ignition.

But the whole drive home, I can't help but wonder: what have I gotten myself into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wish you love" is originally a French song called "Que reste-t-il de nos amours?" (1942), but got a bit of a makeover in the 1950s with different lyrics. It's become a jazz standard, but my favorite version is done by Rachael Yamagata: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAhoIiI1GKY - check it out, it's lovely.
> 
> Don't laugh too hard at Katniss for having to wear a helmet on the ice. The doctor said the same thing to me when I got one a while back...I opted to stay home for a month instead ;)
> 
> The gold medal game for women's curling is tomorrow! Sweden vs Canada, just like in 2010. I hope Canada wins this time!
> 
> Thank you again for reading and commenting. I truly appreciate it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than usual, but with side of extra fluff. Enjoy.

“You know, for someone who was dragged into this curling thing kicking and screaming, you go to Capitol with alarming frequency,” Johanna teases as she watches me don my coat. “And on a school night, to boot!”

I just groan in response. “I told you, Jo. It’s the only way I’m allowed to be on the ice until Dr. Aurelius says I’m fully healed.”

Jo’s not convinced. “Sure it is. And I’m sure that the opportunity to get one-on-one time with Peeta has nothing to do with it.”

“It doesn’t,” I assert. “This arrangement is strictly professional.”

“You do understand that he’s a _volunteer_ instructor, right?”

“You do understand that you’re being an idiot, right?”

Johanna just laughs at my lame attempt at a comeback, and heads to the freezer for more ice cream. “Whatever you say, Brainless. You go enjoy your date with Blondie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she adds, as I slam the side door behind me.

 _This isn’t a date, it’s a curling lesson_ , I tell myself. Johanna’s just trying to get under my skin like usual.

So why do I feel strangely nervous about the whole thing?

\---

Peeta’s still out on the ice with his team when I arrive, so I sit in the viewing area and watch them while they finish up. Peeta’s standing in the house with his back to me, wearing a black uniform shirt with his last name and the number 12 printed on it. He doesn’t see me - which is probably better, because the last thing I need is for him to think I’m staring – but I can’t help but wonder how he can possibly stand wearing a short sleeved shirt out in cold. Given his attire, I also can’t help but notice how well he fills out his shirt. Especially those arm muscles…wow.

Wait. Stop. No.

I shake myself from my reverie and try to concentrate on their game. At the far end of the sheet, I see Finnick send a stone sailing down the ice. That’s definitely a takeout shot. Their teammates, whom I don’t recognize, sweep furiously to keep it on the right path, while Peeta, squatting low to keep an eye on the rock, directs them from his spot in the house.

“HARD! Real hard, guys! Come on!” he yells authoritatively. “All the way, hard!”

I’m caught off guard by the commanding tone in Peeta’s voice. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. I know I made fun of the yelling when I first saw this game on TV with Prim, but I’ve gotta say, it seems to have a different effect when you watch it in person.

I watch as stone strikes its intended target, setting off a chain reaction that ends up clearing the house of all the rocks except for Finnick’s. Peeta high-fives his teammates. “That was amazing. Great sweeping, guys!” he cheers as they put the rocks back into place. Gone is the voice of authority, replaced once again by his usual friendly tone. Looking up, he notices me on the other side of the glass and gives a small wave. “Hey! I’ll be right there!” he shouts, as if he fears that I won’t be able to hear him through the window. I just nod in response.

 Within a few minutes, the guys are marching back into the warm room and over to where I’m sitting. Peeta flashes me a brilliant smile. “I’m so glad you could make it, Katniss,” he says. “I’d love to introduce you to the guys, if you’d like.”

“Sure,” I reply, standing to shake hands with his teammates.

“This is Gale,” Peeta says, gesturing to a dark-haired man who looks vaguely like one of my cousins on my dad’s side. “He’s our lead. This is Thresh, our second,” he says, reaching up to clap a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And of course, you already know Finnick. He’s our skip.”

“What about you? What are you?” I ask.

“Me? Oh, I’m vice,” he says proudly.

“And what an excellent vice he is,” Finnick chimes in, winking in my direction. “So what brings you to the club this evening? Here to see our little Peeta?”

“Oh, you know, I was just in the neighborhood,” I say nonchalantly. I suspect he already knows why I’m here, but I’d rather not have to explain my arrangement with Peeta. “Jo told me you guys didn’t totally suck, so I thought I’d see for myself.”

“Ah. And so…see anything you like?” Finnick questions, striking a pose and sending another suggestive grin my way.

“Not particularly.”

“You wound me, Katniss,” he sighs dramatically. Grinning, he turns back to Peeta. “We’re going to head out. I take it you’re sticking around?” he asks.

“Yeah, Haymitch asked me to lock up tonight,” Peeta answers smoothly.

“Right. Well, Katniss, it was lovely to see you again,” Finnick says with a smile. “Peeta told me about your concussion – take it easy out there, okay?”

So he does know why I’m here. “Will do, Finnick. Thanks.” I turn to Gale and Thresh, who have been observing our exchange with amused looks on their faces. I wonder if they know something I don’t. “It was really nice to meet you too.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” Thresh replies as he shakes my hand once more. As they turn to leave, they cast Peeta a meaningful look that I can’t quite decipher. “Peeta, we’ll see you later.”

“Later, guys.” Peeta waves them off with a grin, and then it’s just the two of us.

This place suddenly feels really empty.

“So…” I say.

“So,” he echoes quietly. Silence hangs between us for a moment, threatening to swallow the room whole. Peeta folds his arms in front of him, bringing my attention back to his well-defined biceps. Man, all that sweeping must be a better workout than I thought. “So I have a plan for what I want to do with you, but I thought I’d start by taking you through all the different positions.”

“Excuse me?” I look up, surprised by the innuendo in his statement.

“Yeah, the positions. You know: lead, second, vice, and skip,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Oh.” _Those_ positions. Get your mind out of the gutter, Everdeen.

Peeta looks at me quizzically, but he must catch on to my train of thought, because he blushes in response. “Oh. _Oh_. Oh God, I must sound like such a pervert. I’m so sorry. It’s just, I mean, I’ve been curling for so long, I tend to forget how dirty curling-speak can sound to the untrained observer.”

I can’t help but laugh at his mortified expression. “It’s so true. I mocked Prim for days about it when she first started watching.”

“You don’t know the half of it. When Finn first started skipping, he’d go out of his way to be as suggestive as possible with his line calls. My favorite line of his went something like, ‘Tap that right in the crotch!’”

A snort escapes me involuntarily. “He didn’t. Is that even a real thing?”

“Oh yeah, totally. All it means is that he wanted a double takeout. The ‘crotch’ just refers to the space between two stones that are side by side. But the best part is that the little old ladies out on the ice with us didn’t even bat an eyelash since they knew what he meant. But Gale and Thresh, who were new to the sport at the time, were totally horrified.”

With the ice broken (no pun intended), Peeta and I begin our lesson. But rather than go back into the rink, we sit on a couch by the fireplace as he explains the different roles that each team member plays.

“Since you’re just starting out, it’s likely that you’ll play lead or second. If you’re lead, you’ll be responsible for setting up each end by putting up guard stones. The good thing about playing lead is that you don’t have to worry about doing a lot of trick shots – you just work on perfecting your guard weight, and that’s it.”

“That sounds easy enough. What about second, though?”

“Second is actually an underrated position. Then again, I’m kind of biased since I played second for years before getting promoted to vice,” Peeta admits. “But the second actually starts putting rocks into play. That usually means draw shots-“

“Draws?’

“Yeah, that’s what they call a shot that goes into the house, closer to the button. Ideally you want your draw shots to be protected by the guards that your lead put up.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“Yeah, so the second usually draws, but he or she will also do an occasional takeout or guard, depending on the situation. It requires a lot of versatility on the part of the player. But the lead and second also have to be really good sweepers. They’re in charge of telling the skip how fast the rock is going – but I have a feeling you already knew that.”

I nod. I _had_ kind of figured it out, but it’s nice to get confirmation from someone who actually knows the game. “Right. So what about vice? Why do they call it vice, anyway?”

Peeta grins. “Well, it’s not the kind of vice Finnick was trying to imply. Vice is actually short for vice-skip. It depends on the game but typically vices do a lot of takeout shots. The vice also stands in the house and calls the line when it’s the skip’s turn to throw.”

“Oh, so that explains why you were in the house during your practice. I get it.”

“Wait, you were here for that? I thought you only arrived at the very end, when we were putting the rocks away.”

“I, uh, got here a few minutes early. You were really good out there.”

Peeta smiles bashfully. “Nah, Gale and Thresh did all the work. Anyway, the final position is skip – they’re like the captain of the team. They usually throw the last two rocks of each end, but otherwise they spend the whole time standing in the house calling the line. We like to tease Finnick that he stands around looking pretty while the rest of us do the grunt work…but he’s a great strategist, so we let him.”

With that, he stands up and extends a hand to me. Normally I’d find this kind of chivalry annoying, but I take his hand and allow him to help me to my feet. “So I think we’ve covered the basics,” he says. “Ready to get back out on the ice?”

He’s already walking toward the rink’s entrance, but I’m decidedly slow to follow. To be honest, I’m actually a little nervous that I might fall again. Even though I’ve got a helmet this time, and I don’t have an idiot like Cato out there to trip me up, I can’t help it. I’m not used to being afraid of stuff like this. It makes me feel weak, and I don’t like it.

Peeta seems to pick up on my hesitation, and pauses at the doorway. “Hey,” he says, his eyes soft with concern. “It’s okay to be nervous after a concussion, you know. I mean, I know how you feel - I’ve wiped out more times than I can count,” he jokes. “But I’ll do everything I can to keep you from falling, okay? Just…trust me.”

“Trust the guy who’s wiped out more times than he can count?” I counter.

“Yeah, that probably wasn’t the best way to sell my keep-you-from-falling abilities, huh?” he responds sheepishly.

“Perhaps not,” I say with a smirk. “I guess I just have to suck it up and wear that stupid helmet until my confidence is back.”

“Oh, that reminds me, I’ve got to grab something from the locker room. I’ll be right back – just meet me on Sheet 3, okay?”

I quirk my eyebrows at him, but don’t question. “Okay.”

I’m standing at the edge of the sheet fiddling with my helmet a couple minutes later, when I hear Peeta’s heavy footfalls as he makes his way over. He’s carrying a shopping bag with him.

“For you,” he says.

“What is this? You didn’t have to get me anything, you know.”

“I know. But a friend of mine was looking to get rid of some equipment and asked me to help. I figured I’d see if you wanted them.” He produces a pair of black rubber grippers from the bag, as well as a third item that looks like it could be a gripper but has a white Teflon coating on the sole. “These are in really good condition, and you’ll have a much surer footing on the ice if you wear them on top of your sneakers. The slip-on slider might take some getting used to, but we’ll work on that. I just hope they fit.”

I don’t really know what to say. When am I going to stop owing this guy? “I can pay for these, you know,” I say pointedly.

“No need,” he replies. “You’re doing my friend a favor, really. She wouldn’t take your money if you tried. If you don’t take them, she’ll just tell me to donate them to the club.”

I pause for a moment, half-glaring at him as I consider his words. I really don’t like taking charity, but he seems pretty adamant about this. And if I say no, I’ll look like an ungrateful jerk. “Fine, I’ll take them,” I grumble. “But there better not be a broom in that bag,” I add.

“Nope,” he says. “This one’s for me.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out…a helmet?

“The way I figure it,” he explains as he puts it on, “if you’re going to feel all self-conscious about wearing a helmet on the ice, the least I can do is wear one too. You know - in solidarity. Now, shall we get started?”

Peeta grins goofily. He looks like a total dork.

But then again, so do I.

I smile back. “Okay. I’ll allow it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI: I have actually heard someone say "tap that in the crotch" during a curling match. Without a trace of irony. On national television (it was a Canadian curling competition). Take that as you will.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for the comments, kudos, and subscriptions. The response so far has blown me away. I'm humbled, really. So...thanks :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluffiness as Katniss and Peeta get to know each other better. Try not to get used to it, though...
> 
> I've said it before, but it bears repeating: I own nothing, but I borrow with love.

Okay, so maybe I was wrong about this whole curling thing. We’ve been doing these lessons for three weeks now, and although I’d never admit it to Prim or Jo, I’m really enjoying myself. Maybe it’s because I don’t suck at it – it turns out that all those years climbing trees and shooting at things have given me the balance and aim needed to excel at this game. I’m still not a fan of sweeping, but between my lessons and the practices Peeta has me observe, I’m nearly ready to admit that curling is a legitimate sport. And Peeta’s been a really great coach; he doesn’t coddle me, despite my injury, but still manages to keep the atmosphere fun and light.

I might even say that we’re starting to become friends.

“Real or not real,” I say as I reach into a brown paper bag for my third cheese bun of the day. “You got into curling to stay in shape, because otherwise you’d gain a thousand pounds from working at a bakery.” We’ve taken to playing this game while we practice; Peeta suggested it as a getting-to-know-you kind of thing, but now it’s just an opportunity for us to mock each other.

“Have you been checking me out, Everdeen?” Peeta calls back with a raised eyebrow. The initial awkwardness between us has largely dissipated, but the suggestion still makes my cheeks warm. It’s a good thing he’s on the other end of the ice.

“You wish, Mellark. It’s just the only logical explanation I can think of, considering that you work in a carb-haven. Well, that, and the fact that it seems like you spend every non-working moment here at the club,” I muse. I carefully brush my crumbs into the trash bin – Haymitch would probably kill us if he knew Peeta let me bring food into the rink – and switch the gripper on my foot for the slider, using my broom to keep me steady. “Well?”

“I’ll answer your question as soon as you’ve taken your shot,” Peeta replies from his spot in the house. “Let’s see you draw around this guard first,” he says, indicating where he wants the rock to go before moving a few feet to the side, planting his broom in front of him as my mark. “Last shot of the day before the seniors’ league comes to kick us out.”

I take a deep breath and adjust my foot’s position as I try to remember all the pointers Peeta has given me so far. I slide out of the hack, never taking my eyes off his broom, and lightly twist the stone’s handle as I release it. It lands the top of the button, directly behind the guard stone on the center line. A feeling of accomplishment surges through me.

“That was awesome!” Peeta exclaims as he slides down the ice back toward me. “You’ve nearly perfected your T-line weight. Really well done.”

My face hurts from the effort it takes not to beam at his praise. It’s kind of stupid, but I feel like my students when they get a good grade on a test and are trying really hard to keep their cool. The fact that I am also wearing a helmet doesn’t help me to feel any less ridiculous, but I’m still pretty freaking giddy.

I resume our previous conversation as we put the rocks away. “So, you said you’d answer my question. Real or not real?”

“Not real,” he says. He’s still smiling, but there’s something in his voice that tells me that he’s somewhere else, like he’s grasping at some distant memory. “My grandfather was actually a founding member of Capitol Park Curling Club back in the ‘60s.” Peeta goes quiet for a second. “He…he passed away a few years ago. Anyway, he taught my dad to play, and then me and my brothers. I was the only one of us who kept up with it though -unless you count a couple years in high school, when I took up wrestling instead.”

The image of Peeta in some spandex wrestling outfit pops into my head unbidden, causing my eyes to widen slightly. “Wrestling?” I query, clearing my throat to hide the strain in my voice. “That might be the last thing I can picture you doing.”

If Peeta notices my sudden discomfort, he doesn’t show it. “Well, I do have two older brothers, so it’s not like I didn’t have any experience in that area,” he jokes. “They were both on the wrestling team too, so I just followed in their footsteps. Besides, my mom kept badgering me to take up an activity that would actually help me pay for college, so I partially did it to shut her up. Don’t get me wrong, I was actually pretty good - got offered a scholarship and everything. But I dunno, my heart wasn’t in it. My mom was pretty mad when I decided to give it up and go back to curling,” he says with half-smile.

I kind of can’t help but hate his mother a little. Even though he’s never said anything outright, it’s pretty clear from his previous mentions of her that the problems between them run far deeper than her apparent dislike of his extracurricular activities. “So do you spend all your free time here so that you can avoid her, then?” I blurt out.

Peeta laughs at my directness. “If that’s your way of asking if I still live at home, the answer is no,” he replies. “I decided to get more involved when I came home after college. Got certified as an instructor, even convinced my dad to have the bakery sponsor Capitol’s competitive teams. I guess, with my grandpa gone, I felt it was important for me to keep his legacy alive, you know?”

I nod in understanding, thinking back to that day Peeta caught me at the piano. “It makes you feel closer to him, even though he isn’t around anymore. I get it.”

“Exactly. However,” he adds, holding the door open for me as we make our way back into the warm room, “you are right about one thing. Curling is a much better workout than people think.” Peeta winks, reverting back to the cheerful (if not rather flirtatious) guy I’ve gotten to know over the past few weeks.

I’ve come to the conclusion that that he doesn’t really mean anything by it – he’s just being friendly – so I just roll my eyes. “It’s just too bad you guys undo all that good work by drinking so much beer after your games,” I tease back.

“Speaking of beer, I just saw Sae behind the bar. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. We can celebrate how much progress you’ve made. You’re basically my star pupil.”

“Don’t let Cato hear you say that. He’ll be so disappointed.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t. Now come on, Ms. Everdeen,” he says with a smile. “It’s practically the weekend.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“It’s also Happy Hour,” Peeta counters. But in the next instant, his cocky grin disappears and his eyes widen like he’s suddenly realized that he’s made a horrible mistake. “Unless you have moral, or other objections to drinking? I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

Now is my opportunity to strike. “Well, if we’re being honest, I’m actually allergic to alcohol.”

Peeta looks panicked, like he can’t tell if I’m joking or not. My keeping a straight face isn’t helping him any, either. “Real or not real,” he says nervously. “I basically told you that I wanted to kill you when I offered to buy you a drink.”

I can’t help but laugh at his statement. “Not real, I guess? I mean, I wasn’t kidding about not drinking, but technically it's an intolerance to alcohol, if that makes you feel any better.” Peeta still looks kind of freaked out, so I continue. “It really just means that I’m a total lightweight…and by lightweight, I actually mean no weight. I never did the teenage partying thing, so I didn’t even figure it out until a few years ago. Prim and I were at a barbecue and I had maybe three sips of her drink, stupidly thinking that she’d gotten a virgin daiquiri or something since she was still underage at the time. Within about fifteen minutes I was hugging everyone, and then fell asleep in a lawn chair for the next three hours. At least, that’s what Prim tells me - I don’t really remember. But the idea that three sips of a drink could make me lose control like that kinda scared me, so I got myself checked out. My doctor says there’s a chance I could develop a real allergy to alcohol over time, so just to be safe, I try to avoid it.”

On the rare occasions that I share stories like this, this is normally the part where the person I’m talking to either bursts out laughing or offers condolences on my inability to drink. But Peeta does neither. “So the moral of the story is, I should get you a hot chocolate instead.”

I offer a small smile in response. “Fine. But I’m buying the next round.”

\----

The following Tuesday, I’m so excited to share my good news with Peeta that I go straight to the club following my doctor’s appointment.

 “Hey!” Peeta exclaims when he sees me. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.”

I cringe inwardly at his response. I’ve been coming here so often, it didn’t even occur to me that it might be weird for me to just show up to see Peeta without letting him know first. To be fair, my doctor’s office is just down the road…but still.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I should have realized you were going to be busy…” I trail off. I feel like an idiot. I need to get out of here.

Peeta senses my discomfort and rushes to reassure me. “Hey, no! That’s not what I meant at all. You’re welcome here anytime – the doors are open to anyone who wants to play or practice. In fact, the guys and I decided to ditch practice and have an early dinner instead, so the ice is free if you want to get out there. I can’t let you go without a helmet though,” he adds. “Prim would kill me if she found out I did that.”

I smile triumphantly in response. “That’s actually why I was here,” I say. “I just had my follow-up with the doctor, and he’s officially given me the all-clear to play…helmet-free.”

“That’s great, Katniss!” Peeta beams, sweeping me up into a hug. It’s unexpected, and I surprise myself with how easily I melt into the embrace. But it doesn’t take long for the awkwardness to settle over us as I realize how close we are. What is wrong with me? Peeta’s my friend…I mean, coach.

I clumsily remove myself from his arms and brush myself off. “Yeah, well, I obviously still have to be careful, but it’ll be nice to play without constantly having to adjust my headgear. I’ll have to get used to sweeping without the additional weight on my head,” I joke, trying to alleviate the sudden tension that has appeared.

“You’ll figure it out, I’m sure. Anyway, I’ll let you get out there to practice.” Peeta steps out of my way so that I can head to the rink, but pauses after a moment.” Unless you want to join me and the guys? We got Thai food.”

Between the hopeful look on Peeta’s face and the embarrassing rumble of my stomach, there’s no way I can refuse. “Sure. I’d like that.”

“Great!” a voice says behind us. I turn and see Finnick looking at us with a bemused smile on his face. How long has he been standing there? He throws his arm over my shoulder as he guides me and Peeta over to their team’s table. “Because I think we ordered enough to feed an army. Lucky for you, Thresh had a snack before practice started…otherwise you’d have to get your own pad thai.”

“What can I say? I’m a growing boy,” Thresh shrugs. “Nice to see you again, Katniss.”

I give him a smile before taking a seat. “Nice to see you guys too.”

There are so many takeout boxes littering the top of the table that I’m not sure if there will be space for us to actually eat, so we get straight to the task of organizing the food before we dig in. I offer to help pay, of course, but the guys won’t have any of it. “Not a chance,” Peeta says with finality. “We’re going to take advantage of this moment to celebrate your recovery.” I roll my eyes at him a bit – I had a concussion, not a life-threatening disease – but his teammates are just as adamant in their agreement, so I grudgingly allow it.

“So, you give any thought to playing in the bonspiel that’s coming up?” Gale asks as he passes me more green curry. Johanna tells me you’ve taken up residence here over the past few weeks, so I imagine you’ve gotten pretty good.”

“You’ve been talking to Jo?”

Gale flushes for a moment before responding. “Oh, yeah. She joined my mixed team. I can’t believe she’s playing for the first time in over a decade. She’s pretty- I mean, a pretty fierce competitor.”

I make a note to have a chat with Johanna later, but change the subject to spare Gale from any potential embarrassment. “You said something about a bonspiel. What is that again?”

“That’s what we call a curling tournament,” Finnick says with a shrug. “Just something else to add to your curling vocabulary. Anyway, it’s the last one of the year before we close up for the summer months. We pair new curlers up with current members, so the teams are pretty evenly matched. We have prizes and all that too, but since it’s an in-house competition, it’s really just for fun. But you’re guaranteed to play at least three games, plus the club provides all meals both days. It’s actually pretty sweet.”

“What is it with this club and food? Seriously, I feel like curling is really just an excuse for you guys to eat and drink beer,” I observe, to the general amusement my dinner companions.

“It’s just one of the charms of the game,” Peeta replies with a shrug. “Anyway, don’t forget – Seneca’s waiving your fee, so you can play for free. It’s basically a win-win.”

“Not quite. It depends who’s catering,” I counter, though I have a feeling I already know the answer. Please let there be cheese buns.

Peeta’s grin confirms my suspicions. “Guilty,” he says. “That’s actually why I can’t play. I’ll be too busy shuffling back and forth between here and the bakery.”

I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. “Oh. Well, like you said, I get to play for free, so I guess there’s no harm in signing up…especially now that I’m cleared to play.”

“Perfect! I’ll add your name to the list while I’m grabbing drinks,” Finnick says, jumping out of his seat. “You guys want anything? I am an excellent bartender.”

“I’ll just have a hot chocolate.”

Finnick makes a face. “First of all, hot chocolate and Thai food? That sounds like the worst possible combination I can think of. Second, I want a challenge! If you want something sweet, I can definitely help you with that.”

I remain unmoved. “Hot chocolate would be just lovely, Finnick. Thank you.”

He sulks in response. “Fine. What about you, Peeta?”

Peeta gives me a knowing smile. “Make that two hot chocolates.”

\---

The first thing I register is the crackling of a fireplace. A deliciously warm feeling courses through me and I feel the desire to snuggle into my pillow and sleep for just a few more minutes.

Then I remember that my room doesn’t have a fireplace.

And this isn’t a pillow. I’ve been sleeping on someone’s lap.

The realization jolts me into a sitting position. Oh my God, where am I? And what time is it? And who was I sleeping on?

 “Hey there, sleepyhead.” I wince at the sound of a familiar voice. This didn’t just happen, did it? I slowly turn to face the voice’s owner, planting my feet back on the floor. “You feeling okay? You weren’t kidding when you said you were a lightweight,” Peeta says with a soft smile.

Yup, it happened. I fell asleep on my curling instructor. There’s a little puddle of drool on his pant leg to prove it.

“I’m so confused – how am I still here? And what time is it?”

“It’s about 9:15. You’ve been out for more than two and a half hours.” Peeta shakes his head embarrassedly. “It turns out that Mr. Odair was dissatisfied with my drink order and decided to kick my hot chocolate up a notch with some crème de cacao and Kahlua. I should have realized he’d pull something like this – he’s always spiking my drinks with random shit and waiting to see if I can figure out what he did. Except he gave me the wrong one, and by the time he realized his mistake, you’d already finished it. I would have been impressed by your ability to chug hot liquids if not for the fact that I was trying not to freak out.” He tries not to laugh at the scowl I give him in response. “Anyway, next thing we know, you’re giggling like a schoolgirl and telling us stories about your students. I still can’t believe that kid pissed himself in class just to get out of taking your science exam…”

I cringe, trying to think back to dinner. The last thing I remember is how spicy those noodles were – I figured that the creaminess of the hot chocolate would counteract the fire in my mouth, and just downed my drink without a second thought. “I don’t know whether I should die of embarrassment, or kill Finnick.”

“Believe me, Finn was about ready to die when I told him about your alcohol allergy,” Peeta replies. He gestures to the rink. Through the window I can see Finnick’s still here, practicing. “He’s been out there waiting for you to wake up so that he can beg your forgiveness.”

“Why aren’t you out there too?”

“Me?” Peeta shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Well, you suddenly got really tired, and I didn’t want you to fall into the fireplace, so I helped you over here…and you asked me to stay and sit with you until you felt more like yourself.”

“I did?” This just gets worse and worse.

“Uh, yeah. And then you fell asleep, and I couldn’t really move because, well, you were…I didn’t want to wake you. I think I might have dozed off for a while too, if that makes you feel any better. Nothing happened, I swear – you can ask the guys,” Peeta adds nervously.

I give him a nervous smile of my own. “No, I trust you. I mean, I’m still feeling pretty mortified, but I’m glad you were here.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t ordered the same drink as you, this wouldn’t even have happened,” Peeta points out with a shake of his head.

I just shrug. It’s really not his fault, and at the end of the day, I’m all right. There’s no point in getting mad about it. “What’s done is done, I guess. But I should be getting home…I’ve got school in the morning.”

Peeta jumps up from the couch and extends his hand to help me up. “I was actually going to offer to give you a lift home. Just in case.”

“No, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll need my car to get to work.”

“It’s no trouble,” Peeta insists. “Finnick and I already talked about it. I’ll drive you in your car, and he’ll follow in his so that he can give me a ride back.” His voice still hints of concern. “Please, let me do this? I know you’re not a weakling or anything. It would just put me – I mean, me and Finnick at ease. Besides, Finnick owes you big time for this. I encourage you to draw it out as long as possible,” he adds conspiratorially.

I smile weakly at his joke, realizing that I’m still feeling a little bit out of it. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Peeta says. He quickly strides across the room and knocks on the window to get Finnick’s attention. A few minutes and a lot of apologies later, I’m directing Peeta back to my place.

“You can park over there,” I instruct as we pull up to our little house. I make a silent reminder to myself to readjust the mirrors when I get back behind the wheel tomorrow.

Peeta helps me out of the car and hands me my keys. “Aside from the you-accidentally-getting-drunk part, I’m really glad we got to hang out today.”

I wrinkle my nose, still slightly embarrassed by this evening’s turn of events. “Me, too,” I admit after a moment. “But remind me never to let Finnick make my drinks again.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” he replies with a chuckle. “You’re lucky, you know – you’ll probably be able to hold this one over Finn for at least the next five years.”

“I heard that!” Finnick calls, jumping out of his now-parked vehicle and running over to give me a hug. “And again, I’m really, really, REALLY sorry.”

I pull away, giving him a mock glare. “You owe me one, Odair,” I say sternly. I turn and give Peeta a hug as well. “Thanks for staying with me,” I say softly.

I don’t quite catch Peeta’s response since it’s muffled by my hair. He smiles brightly as he pulls away. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow? Helmet and hangover-free?”

I can’t help but laugh as I make my way to the front door. “You got it. See you tomorrow. Bye, Finnick.”

I stand by the doorway and wave them off, waiting for them to drive away. What a day. Thank goodness for Peeta being so…Peeta. Thinking back to our goodbye hug, I realize what he’d said. _Always_.

I find myself smiling at the thought.

I hesitate for a moment before I enter the house. It’s still only about 10, thank goodness. But given that it’s a school night, I’m usually home long before now. I have a feeling I’ll never hear the end of it if Prim or Jo find out what happened this evening. I’d better come up with a good story in case they ask. The last thing I need is for them to mock me and my accidental inebriation.

Crossing my fingers, I slowly turn the key and make my way inside – only to find my housemates sitting on the couch by the front window, ready to pounce. They must have seen the whole thing - and of course, they’ll want to know why Peeta and Finnick, but especially Peeta, took me home. The look on their faces confirms it before Prim even opens her mouth.

“And where have you been, young lady?”   

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alcohol intolerance is a real thing. Katniss' story may or may not be based on something that happened to someone in my family. And it may or may not have been pretty hilarious.
> 
> We're now more than halfway through the story...but like I said, don't get too comfortable with the idea of Katniss and Peeta getting together just yet.
> 
> Thanks so very much for your feedback - I truly appreciate it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the slight delay in posting; this was a really tough chapter to write. Also, my beta was out celebrating her birthday - in Prague - and I thought it inconsiderate to bother her until she got back. But go wish Dealan a happy birthday! She's now 12! (Just kidding.)

Despite five days of nonstop teasing from Prim and Jo, when Saturday rolls around I decide to accompany them to the club so that I can watch them play.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Brainless,” Jo quips as we pile into the car. “You hoping to see Cato wipe out on the ice when he sees you and realizes you’re not dead?”

“Very funny. I’m actually here for Prim. Besides, Peeta told me I should come in and observe some games so I can learn more about strategy.”

Jo smiles wickedly. “Oh, _Peeta_ told you to. He told you to come in and watch total beginners who can still barely make it past the hog line so that you can learn more about how to play. Are you sure you don’t just want to observe your favorite instructor in action?”

“If I wanted to do that, I’d just watch him during his Tuesday practices with his team,” I retort. It takes about half a second for me to regret saying anything.

“Oh, right – I heard about that from Gale,” Johanna replies. Prim shoots her a questioning look. “We play on the same mixed team,” she says offhandedly. Before I have a chance to shift the focus to her and Gale, Jo barrels on. “But if I recall correctly, he also says you’ve been coming in every week and sit there for at least thirty minutes before they finish…not counting this week’s dinner party, of course,” she adds with a smirk. “Anyway, it sounds to me like you’d get a better sense of strategy by watching people who actually know what they’re doing, right? Or do you just like looking at the way Peeta’s arm muscles flex when he’s sweeping?”

“Stop it, Jo,” Prim says. I look at my sister gratefully, only to discover she’s sporting a grin that all but confirms that I’ll be hearing more on the subject later. “For my part, I’m happy that Katniss is coming with us. It actually means a lot,” she says sincerely, giving my arm a light squeeze of reassurance.

“I’m sure it will mean a lot to Peeta as well,” Jo sing-songs as she spreads out on the backseat.

“Shut it, Mason.”

\---

When we arrive at Capitol, a feeling of unease runs through me that I can’t quite shake. I realize that I’m actually rather uncomfortable seeing Peeta in this setting. It doesn't really make any sense - I mean, Jo's right, I've practically been living here for the past month - but there's something different about being here with so many people around us. For the most part, we've been in our own little space isolated from everyone else, and now that we're in the real world I feel like I’ll have to figure out how to act around him all over again – especially if I want to avoid any more harassment from Prim and Johanna. So instead, I do nothing.

It doesn’t help that Peeta seems just as hesitant to approach me as I am to go to him. When he sees us walk through the door, he just gives a little smile and wave before resuming his conversation with a curvy blonde woman that I don't recognize. I bristle at the rather uncharacteristic brush-off, but try to put myself in his shoes. I guess Peeta's in the same position as I am; I mean, if I was working one of my students outside of school and saw him or her in class, I would want to maintain an appropriate distance so it was clear that I wasn't playing favorites or anything. Of course, my students are twelve, but that’s a minor detail.

So why do I feel weirdly jealous of the fact that he’s chatting with some pretty blonde instead of talking to me?

It’s not long before everyone heads out onto the ice, leaving me alone with my thoughts as I observe them play. I make a point of focusing my attention on Prim’s game. _You’re here to support your sister, not hang out with your curling instructor_ , I remind myself.

Because no matter how friendly Peeta’s been, that’s all he is…right? My gut twists uncomfortably at the thought.

Despite my efforts, I give up on watching the league play after a while and make my way to the bar for a hot chocolate. Given this strange funk I seem to be in, I could use the endorphins.

Haymitch appears from behind the counter. “Hey there, Sweetheart. Almost didn’t recognize you without your head gear.”

I roll my eyes. “Hello, Haymitch. Didn’t realize they let you man the bar. Do they pay you in drinks?”

“My, my, someone’s feeling extra prickly today. What’s the matter? Lover’s quarrel with the boy? I thought it strange that you’re over here instead of attached at the hip like I’ve seen for the past few weeks.”

“It’s not like that,” I argue, my cheeks reddening at…whatever he’s insinuating. “Peeta’s just been coaching me privately since I got injured.”

“Yeah, yeah, say what you want,” he says with a dismissive wave.”But don’t think you’re fooling anyone with that line. I’ve known that boy for years, and even with that heart of gold of his, I’ve never seen him bend over backwards to help someone like he has you. And you two seem to be getting pretty cozy, if you ask me.”

“Wh-what? No! I mean, Peeta, he’s…I…” I stammer. “There’s nothing going on between us.”

“Well if that’s the case, Sweetheart, let me offer you some advice,” Haymitch replies as he leans in, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Peeta’s a good kid. If you two are friends like you say, that’s all well and good. But don’t go giving him any false hope. He’s been put through the wringer enough as it is.”

What is he saying? I just chalk it up to Haymitch being drunk.  

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Haymitch. Really, I don’t. But even if I did, whatever is or isn’t going on between me and Peeta isn’t any of your damn business,” I say hotly.

“What’s going on between you and Peeta?” a voice behind me asks. I whip my head around to see Prim grinning devilishly at me.

“Well, unless Blondie here wants a drink, I think that’s my cue. See you ‘round, ladies,” Haymitch says with a smirk, leaving his post without giving Prim a chance to order. Prim doesn’t seem too bothered by it, though – whether I want it or not, I have her full attention.

“What was that about, Kat?” she asks teasingly.

“Nothing,” I rush to reply. “Haymitch was just making fun of me for wearing a helmet during my lessons with Peeta.” Well, at least I’m not completely lying.

Prim just smiles. “I was just coming in to see if you wanted to join us on the ice. Madge thought you might be bored watching us and said you’re welcome to join our game since we’re short a player. Or you can practice on Sheet 5 – your pick.” I nod in assent, thankful that I’d had the sense to bring my curling gear with me this morning. Prim loops her arm through mine as we grab my things and head into the rink. “You also realize that you’re a terrible liar, right?” she whispers. “We’re definitely talking about this later.”

Great, something to look forward to.

\---

Being out on the ice again turns out to be a nice distraction. At first it’s a little awkward playing an actual game after so many one-on-one sessions, but it doesn’t take long to adjust to the group dynamic. It doesn’t hurt that I play pretty well, too.

It also helps that Prim’s group is really nice. After the game, I end up having a lovely conversation with a girl named Rue. I discover that she’s in the same year as Prim in college, and they actually hang out together on campus from time to time. I’ve felt mildly guilty about the fact that I’ve kind of left Prim behind to fend for herself in the wake of my concussion, but knowing that she’s found a friend in Rue makes me feel a lot better.

“You were pretty amazing out there. I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve been on the ice since you got hurt,” Rue marvels.

I feel my cheeks heat up a little. “Well, technically that’s not quite true. I’ve kind of been taking some lessons on the side.”

“Really? Who’s been coaching you? Maybe I should sign up for lessons, too.”

“Oh, uh, Peeta. He’s…he’s really good.”

Prim casts a raised eyebrow in my direction, but to my relief, says nothing. Rue, oblivious to the harassment I’ve endured for the past week, just nods and moves to the next topic of conversation.  

It doesn’t take long after that for my gaze to wander in search of Peeta. Soon enough, I see him laughing heartily at a joke someone’s made at his table. That blonde is still there too, sitting next to him and beaming like the sun shines out of his ass or something.

I must stare at them for a second too long, because Prim catches me in the act. “I need some fresh air,” she announces to the table. “Hey, Kat, care to come with?” Her facial expression dares me to say no.

I drag my heels as I follow her to the entrance. I pass Peeta’s table on my way, but keep my eyes trained on the door. As soon as we’re outside, she drags me off to the side of the building.

“You want to tell me what’s going on with you and Peeta? Is there a reason you keep staring at him instead of actually talking?”

“What? No! I’m not staring.”

“Please, Katniss. You did fine for a while, but I seriously doubt you heard more than five words that came out of Rue’s mouth in the last two minutes. You were too busy giving dagger eyes to Peeta’s blonde friend.” She continues her line of questioning in spite of my scowl. “So, what’s with you guys?”

When I don’t immediately respond, Prim’s eyes gleam like she’s cracked some kind of code. Her voice rises higher in pitch with each question she shoots in rapid fire.  “You’re seeing each other, aren’t you? I knew it! That would explain Haymitch giving you the third degree at the bar. Seriously, why haven’t you said anything? I’m your sister! This whole cloak-and-dagger thing is a little silly, don’t you think? Or are you trying to keep Jo and finding out and telling Gale?” She’s so excited, she’s out of breath.

I, however, am not amused. Between Jo, Prim, and Haymitch, I’ve just about had it with all the speculation. “Prim, for the last time, let it go! There is nothing, I repeat, nothing going on between me and Peeta. He’s a nice guy and a really great teacher, but at the end of the day, that’s all he is. He’s an instructor, and I’m his student. End of story.” A pang of guilt runs through me even as the words fly out of my mouth. Part of me knows that I’m trying to convince myself as much as Prim, but I’ve already dug myself into too deep a hole to stop now.

Prim pouts. “But you two have been spending so much time together,” she whines.

“Yes. Curling. Not dating. And besides, I’m most likely quitting in a couple weeks. So there’s really no point in you getting invested in the idea of us turning into anything more than that after the season’s over. I’ve got too many things to take care of to make room for much else. So would you please just give it a rest?”

The front door slams, and I realize that my voice has risen a bit more than I would have liked in the process of delivering my little rant. Prim and I whip our heads around to see who, if anyone, heard us - but no one is there.

Prim returns her focus to me, sighing exasperatedly. “Katniss, what on earth could be more important than taking care of yourself?”

 I blink, unsure of where she is going with this. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve always been so focused on making sure we never go back to how things were that you’ve missed out on so much. I’m not trying to sound ungrateful or anything, but it’s been a relief to see you do something for yourself rather than worry about our rent for once.”

I start to protest, but she cuts me off. “And yeah, Jo and I might tease you, but we like the fact that you’re finally getting out. We like that you’ve been spending so much time with Peeta. You’ve been a different person the past few weeks, and I mean that as a compliment. I don’t want that person to go away just because you can’t acknowledge the fact that you’ve made an actual, honest-to-God emotional connection with someone. I mean really, you can’t even admit that you and Peeta are at least friends? You sound like one of your 6th graders.”

“It’s not that,” I hedge. “I mean, we _are_ friends, I guess. But it’s slightly different for us since he’s also my instructor. I mean, you saw how Peeta and I weren’t really talking in there. He clearly needs some breathing room, too.”

Prim rolls her eyes. “I call bullshit. He was probably doing that because you’ve been avoiding him like the plague. Besides, you two are adults - and he’s a _volunteer_ , remember? There’s nothing that says you can’t be friends with Peeta outside the club. You’re just using that whole teacher/student thing as an excuse.”

I pause to consider Prim’s point. She’s right. If Peeta and I are friends, I’ve been a pretty shitty one today. “I should find him and apologize, huh?”

“That would probably be wise.” Sighing once more, she leans forward to give me a hug. “I love you, sister, but you really are the dumbest smart person I know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

We return to our table and rejoin the conversation, but I’m distracted by the cadence of Prim’s words repeating themselves in my head. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m pretty much the dictionary definition of emotionally stunted, but for good reason. During my formative years, relationships didn’t make it onto a priority list that also included items like “having enough to eat” and “paying the electric bill.” Getting close to people simply took more energy than I was able to give. But Prim’s right. Things are different now. It's tough to break the habit of shutting people out, but I guess it's never too late to start. And, truth be told, Peeta has become a good friend. I'd be an idiot to jeopardize that just because Prim and Jo like to tease.

I really should talk to Peeta and apologize for being so weird today. I look around the club, searching for him, but I give up after a few minutes. He must have gone home. I’ll see him on Monday, though. I can talk to him then.

\---

**_Hey, sorry for the late notice but something came up and I can’t make it to the club. Can we reschedule?_ **

I look up from my grading and stare at the message on my phone. That’s weird. Peeta never texts - he always calls. When I gave him grief about it last week, he’d just shrugged and said, _“I know I sound like a hundred-year-old man, but there’s something to be said about hearing the other person’s voice instead of exchanging texts. It’s more…real.”_

I can’t help but wonder if this has anything to do with all that awkwardness from Saturday, but try not to read into it too much. **_Sure_** , I type out. **_Thursday instead? Is everything okay?_**

**_Thursday’s good. Everything’s fine, thanks. Talk to you later._ **

I hate technology. There’s nothing in that statement that gives any hint as to what’s going on. Even if it _is_ nothing like Peeta says, there’s something about his brief response that is unsettling. I don’t really want to get into it over this medium though, so I just answer, **_Okay_** _._

I don’t bother to tell him that school let out early today and I came straight to the club. So much for apologizing. I just pack up my things with a sigh and head home.

\---

The past hour has been excruciating.

Peeta, with his baked goods and funny stories, has been replaced by a taciturn coach who barely speaks except to tell me what kinds of shots he wants me to make. He keeps himself firmly planted at the other end of the sheet, keeping his focus on the rocks in play and the task of directing me. There's no friendly banter, no random stories, nothing. He's 150 feet away, but it feels like we're on different planets.

“Hey, are you okay?” I ask. “You’re being unusually quiet today. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were mad at me or something.” I try to keep my tone light, like I’m joking around, but there’s an edge in my voice that I can’t mask.

“I’m fine,” he responds. “Just got a lot on my mind. Let’s focus on our practice, okay? Now come on, let’s see you put that guard up again.”

Yup, something is definitely up. It doesn’t help that I’ve still yet to find the right moment to discuss the awkwardness that was Saturday. I’m so preoccupied with thoughts of what could be wrong that I completely miss my shot.

“A guard, Katniss. I said I wanted a guard and you're sending it to the back of the house. Try it again,” he says. His voice is flat, emotionless.  
  
“Sorry, I'm just distracted. Uh, are you sure you’re okay?”  
  
“I told you, I'm fine. Now come on, take your shot.”  
  
Annoyed by his dismissive tone, I line up my shot and send the rock hurtling down the sheet. Peeta sees it coming and jumps out of the way as it collides sharply with the rest of the rocks in the house.  
  
“What's up with you?” Peeta asks heatedly as he slides down the ice to face me. “I told you to put a guard up and you sent a bullet flying my way!”  
  
And just like that, my patience breaks.

“What's up with me? What's up with you? You've barely said two words to me all practice that don't involve criticism of the way I'm playing today.”  
  
“That's because you're playing like shit,” he snaps. “I know you don't care about how this ends because you're quitting at the end of next week, but right now I'm still your instructor and I'm trying to do just that - instruct you.”  
  
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is this seriously what’s got him all worked up? “So what, that’s why you’re being so rude today? Or why you blew me off earlier this week? Because you think I've decided that I'm not going to continue next season? You think that distancing yourself like you have is going to make me change my mind? That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Nice, Katniss. Way to be mature about this.”

“Don’t talk to me about mature. You’re the one acting like a complete jerk just because I’m not 100 percent sure I can afford to keep up with this sport. I haven’t even made a decision yet, Peeta! Jesus, I thought we were friends.”  
  
“I thought so too. But you made it pretty clear that none of that mattered on Saturday.”

My hands fly up in exasperation. “Peeta, I’ve been trying to apologize to you since last weekend. I was avoiding you, I know that. It was childish of me, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t feel like it was cool for me to be super chummy with you with all those people there, and I let things get awkward.” I know I should stop there, but I can’t help myself – I’m mad at him now, too. “But you know, it’s not like you were any better. You were so busy flirting with some blonde girl that you barely even acknowledged that I was there! I wasn’t about to interrupt you when your attentions were clearly occupied.”

Peeta’s eyes widen at my accusation, and he remains silent for a moment as he considers his response. When he speaks, his tone is measured. “First of all, that blonde girl you’re referring to is Delly. We were catching up because we hadn’t seen each other in a while. But I wasn’t flirting. I try not to make a habit of flirting with married women. Especially when she’s married to the second on my team.”

I feel like I’ll need a crane to pull my foot out of my mouth. I never even realized Thresh was married.

Peeta goes on. “Secondly, my reference to Saturday has nothing to do with you avoiding me. It has everything to do with that talk you had with Prim outside the club.”

I pale at his mention of Prim. _Oh, God_. It must have been him who we heard at the door while we were talking. “Peeta,” I reply tentatively, “I don’t know how much you heard, but-“

Peeta cuts me off with a wave. “You don’t have to explain, Katniss. I get it. I get that you were acting weird because we were around all those people. I respected that you might feel uncomfortable if they found out I was coaching you privately. But like I said, I heard what you said about me…about us. It wasn't purposely done, I promise. But I can’t say it didn’t bother me. I mean, it's one thing to be awkward or whatever among strangers, but for you to tell your own sister that we weren't even friends....when I heard that, it made me realize that I don't really know you at all.”

I frantically replay my conversation with Prim in my head. Did I really say those things? “I didn’t say we weren’t friends,” I argue. “I said that things are complicated because you’re my instructor and I’m your student.”

“I think your exact words were, ‘ _He’s a nice guy and a really great teacher, but at the end of the day, that’s all he is_.’” The edge to Peeta’s voice belies the calmness in his speech. “Speaking as your teacher, and not your friend, quite frankly I think I’ve overstepped a few boundaries with whatever it is we've been doing for the past month. Since you’re a teacher, too, I’m sure you understand what I mean. So from now on, this is how things are going to be. I instruct, you play. We only have a couple sessions left anyway. And after the bonspiel, we’re done. You don't have to see or hear from me again. I just want to make sure you've gotten your money's worth.”  
  
That last comment stings the most. I know I've been quick to raise concerns about money when it comes to just about anything, but for him to imply that the only reason I want to keep at this is so I can squeeze the maximum possible value out of our arrangement is a pretty low blow. It’s shocking, really, to see him like this. I didn’t think Peeta had a mean bone in his body.

I don't know whether to feel hurt, or furious, or guilty.  
  
My words falter as I try to string together a response. “Peeta, I don’t really know where all of this is coming from. But what you heard between me and Prim – it’s not like that. There’s…you…” I give up trying to explain, and just slump my shoulders with a sigh. “I’m just really confused about everything that’s going on.”

“Well, let me know when you've figured things out.” His tone is resigned rather than cold. “For now though, you're free to go home. We've already been here for more than an hour and I have to help Haymitch prep the ice for the evening.”  
  
Peeta slowly glides back to the other end of the ice, effectively ending the conversation while I stand there, still trying to process what just happened. I wait, expecting him to say something more, but he refuses to even look my way as he silently puts the rocks and equipment back in place. As the seconds tick by, I feel myself getting more and more defensive. My anger soon outstrips my guilty feelings. Do I feel bad about what he overheard between me and Prim? Yes, of course. But that was between me and her – he wasn’t meant to hear that, and in any case, he still doesn’t have the right to make all these assumptions about me…especially after hearing only half the conversation. If anything, Peeta’s behavior from today proves my point. This is why I don’t have room in my life for other people. The second I try to make an effort, I just get stomped on.

Fuck this. I don’t need it. I’m going home.

I will myself to keep my head facing forward as I exit the rink. If he looks back at me as I walk out the door, I don’t notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me (you knew it had to happen, what with Katniss being so...Katniss). But do let me know what you think! 
> 
> Fair warning: there may be a delay in the posting of the next chapter. I'm considering submitting something to Prompts in Panem for the first time, and I'm a little nervous about it. We'll see what happens... :)
> 
> Finally, your curling lesson of the day can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7CUojMQgDpM - it explains the physics behind the game, if you're feeling extra geeky.
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated. Thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

“This was a mistake.”

I stand at the entrance to Capitol Park, unable to will myself to enter. Prim looks at me sympathetically as she wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Oh, Katniss. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you’re strong. You can handle it.”

Jo is decidedly less kind. “Oh please, just suck it up. So what if you’re surrounded by tons of people at 7:30am on a Saturday? It’s a bonspiel. This is what these things are like.”

They both clearly forget that I’m used to early mornings – I mean, I’m a teacher, for goodness’ sake – but I don’t make any effort to correct them. I just allow the two of them to continue thinking that my antisocial tendencies are the cause of my desire to turn around and go home. Better that than admit my regret has anything to do with the blond mop of hair that I spot amid the large crowd.

Prim and Jo don’t know about my fight with Peeta. I guess my sister must have felt bad about cornering me that Saturday, because she hasn’t said a word about him since. Johanna’s been on her best behavior too, so I can only assume Prim told her to knock it off for my sake. As far as they know, everything between us is fine.

The truth is, Peeta and I haven’t spoken since last week. I never called to schedule my last two lessons, and he never called to follow up. The only reason I didn’t drop out of the bonspiel is the knowledge that Peeta won’t be playing. He’ll be occupied with his catering duties, and I’ll be out on the ice. Between that and the sheer number of people here at the club, it should be pretty easy for us to avoid one another.

I, for one, definitely want to avoid having to talk to him again. The more I think about our fight, the more embarrassed I feel. I was nothing short of a complete asshole to him: I gave him a half-assed non-apology for the way I acted on Saturday, accused him of flirting with a married woman, and did nothing to explain myself when he confronted me about my talk with Prim. At this point, I’m not even mad that he overheard us – I just wish I could tell him the whole story. But doing so would require a hell of a lot more courage than I can possibly muster.

So instead, I rationalize. Avoiding him may prove challenging, but it’s easier than the alternative. And in any case, it’s probably better for me to wait until all this hoopla is over and done with. For now, I’m just going to try and focus on this competition. At the very least, it will be a good distraction.

\---

"Welcome, welcome!  For those of you with whom I have yet to make an acquaintance, my name is Effie Trinket and I am Capitol Park Curling Club’s social convener. We have a wonderful event planned for this weekend! As many of you know, this is a very special year for Capitol, as we are celebrating our fiftieth anniversary..."

I space out a little as Effie drones on about the history of the club, entranced by the large coiffed 'do atop her head. Is that a wig? I wonder how someone with hair that big can handle being on the ice. I snort involuntarily at the mental image that comes up as a result, masking it as a coughing fit when Effie's annoyed gaze darts in my direction.

Unruffled by the interruption, Effie continues. "As I was saying, this year's competition will proceed a little differently than usual. Instead of putting teams together in advance, this time around we have a different selection system." She gestures to two massive fishbowls on the table before her with a flourish. "Adds a bit of suspense, don't you think? Anyway, in this bowl we have the names of our beginners - tributes, if you will…”

 _Tributes_? What are we, human sacrifices to the curling gods? This woman is nuts. The manic gleam that lights up Effie’s eyes as she speaks only serves to confirm my suspicions.

“Of course, most of you signed up as pairs, but we believe we have found suitable partners for those of you who signed up as individuals. In our other bowl, we have the names of our veteran curlers. These pairs will serve as your mentors for the next two days. Ooh, I just love this! Let's begin!"

Clapping her hands excitedly, Effie begins the selection process. I don't recognize most of the names, but a few stand out. Prim, who had signed up with Rue before I decided to play, is paired up with Delly and Thresh. A twinge of guilt courses through me at the sight of Delly, who – oblivious to the fact that I’m staring at her – gazes at her husband with clear devotion. Thankfully, I’m distracted from feeling guiltier when I hear Effie call out Johanna’s name. She’s been placed in the mentor group with Gale, which isn't a huge surprise to me, but a shock to Cato and Brutus, who are placed on her team.

"What kind of bullshit is this?" Cato mutters. "She's been playing in the beginner's league with us. There's no way she's good enough to be a mentor."

He's lucky that Effie has moved on, too absorbed in team selection to pay attention to him. However, the odds aren't quite in his favor when it comes to Jo.

"You have a problem there, Blondie?" she asks, drawing herself up to her full height. She's still at least a foot shorter than he is, but that doesn't make her any less terrifying. "If anyone should be complaining about this, it's me. I've seen you out there, and you're not the hot shot you think you are - you've got no control over your weight and your sweeping sucks. Let's also not forget about the part where your carelessness almost got my roommate killed. But this is a team sport, so I'm willing to overlook all that for the next 48 hours so we can win this thing. You listen to me and Gale, and we'll be fine. But if I hear so much as a peep of complaint from you, I'll kick your ass to next Tuesday. We clear?"

By now, everything has stopped and all attention is squarely on Johanna and Cato, the latter of whom stands in a shocked silence. Gale walks up to him and claps a hand on his shoulder. "She'll do it, too," he says, unable to hide the amusement in his voice. "You're lucky to have her on your team, but trust me when I say that you'd be well-served to stay on her good side from here on out."

"Let's return to the selection process, shall we?" Effie booms, determined to regain control of the room. I'm pretty sure she's already made a mental note to do away with whole tribute-mentor-fishbowl thing for next year. "We're down to our last team," she declares, reaching into the bowls for the lone scraps of paper at the bottom. "Katniss Everdeen and Annie Cresta, you have been placed with…Finnick Odair and Mags Cohen. We'll give you all some time to get to know your teammates as we put together the draw schedule, which we will announce shortly. The first game begins in less than an hour, so enjoy some breakfast while you wait! Good curling, everyone!"

I heave a small sigh of relief. I'm glad I know at least one person on my team.

The crowd breaks up as everyone goes in search of their teammates. Finnick finds me first, grinning widely. He wastes no time in leading me across the room to meet Mags.

“Mags, this is Katniss. Katniss, you are in for a treat. Mags is the best curler this club’s got. She taught me everything I know.” He smiles beatifically at her as she ruffles his hair.

I’m at a bit of a loss to witness Finnick’s blatant adoration of the octogenarian that stands before me. Despite her age, Mags herself appears to be a vivacious, jovial woman who clearly loves Finnick just as much as he loves her. But that’s what’s so strange. I’m so used to seeing Finnick as Peeta’s annoying friend who makes bad drinks and sexually suggestive jokes at every possible opportunity, that the sight of him like this is both unsettling and incredibly hilarious.

“Are you two related?” I ask him uncertainly. “It’s the only way I can explain your sudden good behavior.”

Finnick looks offended, but Mags bursts into laughter. “No, but I can see why you might think that. I’ve known Finny so long that I may as well be his grandmother. I know what he’s usually like, but he knows that I won’t stand for any shenanigans.”

“And she knows that she’s the only one who’s allowed to call me Finny,” he adds pointedly. Dammit.  

I’m about to counter with a retort of my own when Effie approaches us, accompanied by a willowy brunette. “Finnick, this young lady was just looking for you,” she trills. “Annie Cresta, meet Finnick Odair. He’ll be the skip on your team. He and Mags will take wonderful care of you, I’m certain of it! Finnick, why don’t you take it from here…Finnick?”

Finnick doesn’t respond. He seems to be in some kind of trance, suddenly transfixed by the sight of the woman standing next to Effie. I nudge him as subtly as I can with my elbow, and he snaps to attention. “What? Oh, right! Yes, of course. Pleasure to meet you, Annie. I was just in the middle of making some introductions myself. But let me say first that I am honored to be teamed up with such strong, beautiful women. We’ll be a tough group to beat, for sure,” he says gallantly.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, and extend my hand to shake Annie’s. “I’m Katniss. You’ll have to excuse Odair here - he’s clearly had too much coffee or something.”

Annie smiles shyly. “Nice to meet you. Did you play in the beginner’s league? I started a couple weeks late, so I’ve been slow to learn everyone’s names.”

I start to reply, but Finnick cuts me off. “Actually, our little Katniss here has been undergoing some intensive solo training instead. She’s practically a pro. But I’m sure you’re just as good on the ice – I can tell.”

This time, my eyes roll of their own accord. “Didn’t your mother tell you that it’s rude to interrupt people when they’re in the middle of a conversation?”

Mags slaps his arm in agreement. “That’s right, Finny. If you want to impress Annie here, do so with your manners and not your mouth. You’re a lot more attractive when you don’t talk so much.”

Finnick reddens at Mags’ remark, while I stifle a giggle. Annie just looks confused, but gives him a sympathetic look anyway. Encouraged, Finnick regains his composure and steps into skip-mode.

“All right, ladies, strategy time. Let’s get down to business.”

“To defeat the Huns?” Annie supplies.

Finnick responds by flashing her a smile so brilliant, it could melt the sun. “Annie Cresta, you are a girl after my own heart.”

\---

I now understand why the club provides all the meals for this event: I’ve been here for over twelve hours.

For a beginner’s bonspiel, this tournament has been a lot more exhausting than I expected it to be. We’re now on our third game, and although we’ve had a couple hours of breaks in between, my arms are starting to burn from all the sweeping.

Still, it’s been a pretty fun day. We won both of our earlier games, and if we win this one, we’ll have a spot in the championship. I didn’t really sign up with the expectation of winning anything, but now that victory is within reach, my competitive side is definitely kicking in.

It’s also worth noting that team is kind of awesome. Although Annie’s not a very strong player, her determination and cheerful attitude – not to mention her ability to shoot Finnick down when he tries to make lewd line calls – make her a great teammate. And Mags…wow. I can only hope that I’m as fit as she is when I’m 80. Granted, she delivers her rocks with some weird stick-like contraption instead of the normal way – but her takeout shots are so precise (and so fast) that we barely need to sweep. As for Finnick…well, Peeta was right. Suggestive calls or not, he’s an incredible strategist, and I feel like I’ve learned a ton from him in these three matches alone. But more importantly, he really is a decent guy. I don’t know if it’s because of Mags and Annie’s influence, but as the day’s gone by, I’ve found him rising my estimation – both as a player and as a person.

Finnick lightly taps the opposing team’s rock with his broom, signaling for a takeout.

“They’re shot rock!” he calls. “If you hit and stick, that’s fine. But if we can roll it behind our corner guard, that would be ideal. Back line weight should do it.”

“I don’t have a clue what he just said,” Annie laments.

“Don’t worry, I can help,” I offer, gesturing at the rocks as I explain. “He wants Mags to knock out the other team’s stone because it’s closer to the button than the one we’ve got in the house. If her shot hits the rock dead-on, theirs will go out but ours probably won’t move. But if she hits it at an angle, our rock will bounce a little to the side. If that happens, he wants us to sweep it so that it lands in a spot that’s protected by the guard rock we’ve got on the left side of the house. But the key is for Mags not to throw the rock too hard – otherwise, it might roll out of play. That’s why Finn says he wants back line weight. That just means he wants a shot that would stop at the back of the house on its own.”

Whoa. Did I really just say all that _and_ understand what it means?

Annie is wide-eyed. “Wow, Finnick wasn’t kidding when he said you’d been training intensively. You really get this game.”

I look back to Mags, who is still preparing her shot. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Peeta chatting with Darius on the other side of the window. “Nah, I just had a really good coach,” I reply wistfully.

Shit. I was doing so well. I’ve been so focused on my games that I’ve barely thought about Peeta all day. I shake my head, determined not to lose my concentration. “Okay, Mags is ready. Here we go.”

I don’t look out the window for the rest of the match, channeling all my frustration into the game. Thankfully, it works. We end up winning by two points.

“Best. Team. Ever.” Finnick crows, giving each of us a high-five as we exit the rink. “This puts us in the A event final. We could win this whole thing!”

“More importantly,” Mags adds, “we get to sleep. There are four final matches taking place tomorrow, but the A event final isn’t until the evening. I always feel so terrible for the teams that stay up late playing and then have to get up for an early game the next day.”

I look at the clock – it’s nearly 10pm. The first game tomorrow starts at 7:30am. Ouch.

“So, who are we playing?” I ask.

Finnick checks the schedule board. “Team Hawthorne,” he replies.

I groan. “Great. We get to play against my roommate and the guy who got me concussed.”

Annie looks at me, confused. “Concussed? Wait, should you be playing right now?”

“It’s a long story, but I’m actually fine. Just not looking forward to being on the ice with Cato again,” I shrug.

“Good thing we’re teammates, right?” Finnick says with a grin. “I mean, the sheer combination of skill, strategy, and good looks is bound to overwhelm them completely. And I’m not just talking about myself,” he adds with a wink.

Mags rolls her eyes, but can’t help but laugh at Finn a little. “As much as I hate to encourage Finny when he says stuff like this, he’s right,” she notes. “You played really well today, and you’ll have the three of us to back you up. Win or lose, it will be a great game. Now come on, we need to buy our opponents their drinks before we head home for the night.”

I smile as I follow my team to the bar. Mags is right. Everything is going to be fine.

\---

Everything is definitely not fine.

I can't move my legs. I can't move my arms either.

Holy shit, I’m totally paralyzed.

I crane my neck awkwardly to check the time on my clock radio. 9:43am. I don’t remember the last time I woke up that late – yesterday must have really knocked me out.

"Priiiiiim," I call pathetically from my bed. "Help. I’ve completely lost control of my limbs. Heal me."

"I caaaan't!" she moans back. She sounds just as pained as I do. "I'm sore in places I've only read about in my textbooks. Thank God we're out of the bonspiel, because I don't know when I'll be able to move again!"

I hear another groan coming from Jo's room. "Would you guys shut up and let me go back to sleep already? I remember now why I quit curling in the first place. I can't be expected to be a fully functional human after playing three 2-hour games in less than 24 hours."

"It's a good thing our final isn't until 6, then!" I yell. Despite being sore all over, I can't help but chuckle a little. We do a lot of dumb things as roommates, but yelling at each other from our rooms because we're too pained to move has to be one of the most ridiculous.

Then the doorbell rings. All three of us suddenly go silent, each hoping the other two will believe we've gone back to sleep and make their way to the door...or that the person at the door will go away. Our little contest of who-will-cave-first lasts for a few minutes when my phone rings. I fumble for it amid the other items on my nightstand, still struggling to regain enough strength to move my arm. When I check the call display, I see that it's Finnick.

"Katniss, open up," he says when I answer, not bothering to say hello. "I've been outside your door forever. I know you're home, I can see your car."

"Finnick, what are you doing here?"

"I'll explain in a minute. Now can you please let me in? I know it's already April, but it's cold out here."

I disconnect the call, groaning as I sit up in my bed. "Finnick's here, guys," I yell. No answer. I guess they ended up falling back asleep for real.

"Finally," he says when I open the door. How does he look so perfectly rested? I feel like death. "Rough night?"

"No, just really, really sore," I reply. I'm finally regaining feeling in my right leg.

"Oh, that's normal. Your body's not used to handling six hours of sweeping in a day."

"And yours is?"

“You forget that, as a skip, I don't have to sweep. Got other things to take care of," he says with a cocky grin. Finnick steps inside and looks around. “Nice place.”

I just shake my head in confusion. "As much as I am enjoying this conversation, I still have no idea why you're here. What's so pressing that you had to see me a full eight hours before we're supposed to play in the final?"

"That's actually why I'm here," he answers. "I got a call from Mags a few hours ago. She can't play tonight."

"Oh no! What happened? Is she okay?"

"She's fine," Finnick replies reassuringly. "But her grand-daughter went into labor a couple weeks early, so she's on her way to help out with the birth."

“That’s wonderful news! I mean, not wonderful that Mags can’t play, but about her becoming a great-grandmother. But why didn’t you just text me instead of coming over? I get that we’ll need a sub, but aside from that I don’t really see how this affects me.”

Finnick smirks. “Ah, well, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve come here to tell you that you’ve been promoted. Congratulations.”

I stop short at his announcement. “Wait, what? I’ve been playing for six weeks. There’s no way I’m ready to play vice.” I raise my eyebrows at him. “If this is your way of paying me back for accidentally getting me drunk, I think I’ll pass.”

“Relax, Katniss. First off, there’s a reason I’m moving you up. You’ve done great with her so far, but Annie needs help in the front end. I’d rather have an experienced curler playing second so that she can get more support. And I’ll be there to help you out in your vicing duties. Second, this isn’t like an official competition – it’s an in-house bonspiel for beginners, so the organizers allow us to do stuff like this as long as the opposing team has no objections. I already talked to Gale, and he said he’s fine with it. And anyway, on paper it’s all the same. Two tributes, two mentors.”

“But Jo is so good. There’s no way I can compete with that.”

“You’ll be fine. I talked to Peeta about you, and he agrees that you can handle it. You guys have been working so hard for the past few weeks, you’re way ahead of the other players in the beginner’s league. It was pretty clear by the way you played yesterday.”

I ignore the compliment, distracted by the mention of Peeta. “You talked to Peeta about me?”

Finnick shifts uneasily in his seat. “Yeah. That was the other thing. Because Mags contacted me so late, it’s been a bit of a struggle to find someone to take her place. Literally everyone I tried calling is either playing in one of the other final events or has plans for the evening. I even tried talking to Haymitch. Effie said I should have had a list of players on standby, but there was no way I could have foreseen-“

“Spit it out, Odair.” Finn cringes, and I brace myself for what I know he’ll say next.

“Peeta’s playing in the final.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this qualify as a cliffhanger?
> 
> True story: The very first time I competed in a bonspiel, we played three games over the course of 12 hours. (We lost every single one, but that's a different story). I couldn't move the next day, and was sore for a week afterwards. But it was a lot of fun!
> 
> Shameless self-promotion: I wrote something for Prompts in Panem. I'll post it here on Ao3 later, but you can also look for it among the other amazing stories on that site....misshoneywell is doing a great job as moderator!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to dealan for her help with this. 
> 
> Just a reminder: I own nothing, but I borrow with love.

Peeta’s playing in the final. On my team.

All my hopes of being able to avoid him have gone out the proverbial window, and may possibly also take with them a good chunk of my dignity.

“Katniss,” Finnick says carefully, “I wanted to tell you in person as soon as I found out because I know there’s some…tension between the two of you.”

I look up at him in alarm. “He told you about our fight? What the hell? I know he’s mad at me, but that strikes me as an uncharacteristically asshole move on his part.”

Finnick waves his hands in front of him. “Whoa, hold up. Peeta hasn’t told me anything, I swear,” he rushes to reply. “He didn’t have to. I could tell something was up at Tuesday’s practice.”

“What are you talking about?”

He gives a little sigh. “Peeta and I have been friends for a long time, so we know each other pretty well. So it wasn’t hard for me to pick up on the fact that he’s had a spring in his step since the day you guys started your little coaching arrangement. The guys and I may even have ribbed him about it a few times at practice. But when I asked about you on Tuesday, he kind of just shut down. I swear he didn’t say more than twenty words the whole night, and you know how much of a talker he is…that’s like a record low. Anyway, I didn’t press him for details or anything, but it didn’t take much for me to put two and two together.”

I’m too tired to try and process what Finnick’s saying. “If what you’re saying is true, why on earth did Peeta even agree to sub in for the game?”

“Oh, he tried to say no. Said he didn’t want to make things difficult for ‘you and Annie.’ But like I said, there’s no one else. And really, he’s a great curler. If anyone is capable of helping us win that final, it’s him.”

I’m sure Finnick’s telling the truth, but right now, all I can think about is how awkward it’s going to be tonight. How on earth can I play on the same team as Peeta if we’re not even talking?

“Look, Katniss. I know it’s not really my place, but I need to know that I haven’t made a colossal mistake by asking Peeta to spare. Is this going to be a problem?”

“No! I mean, no. It’ll be fine. We’re all adults, and it’s just one game.” I sigh frustratedly, letting my head fall onto the back of the couch. “It’s just…”

Before I know it, I’ve blurted out the entire story. By the time I’m done, I’m even more exhausted than when I first got up this morning.

Finnick quietly plays with a knot in his shoelaces as he sorts through everything I’ve told him. “I’m not going to defend the way he talked to you,” he finally says, “but it sounds like you hurt him too. And I can pretty much guarantee that there’s more going on with Peeta than you realize. You owe it to him – to each other, really – to work this out. Because guys- I mean, friends- like Peeta don’t come along every day.” For a moment it looks like he’s about to say something else, but instead he shakes his head and gets up to leave.

I accompany Finn to the door. Just before he exits, he turns and looks me squarely in the eye. “I don’t really care if we win or lose tonight, but I can tell you for certain that we’re going to lose if you two don’t at least try to hash things out before the final.” He pauses, as if considering whether or not to continue. “Peeta’s going to be at the bakery for at least a couple more hours before he has to head back to the club. Just thought you should know – you know, in case you haven’t had breakfast yet.”

With that, Finnick heads out. I guess the ball’s in my court now.

\---

I stand awkwardly outside the door of Mellark and Sons, trying to remember why I thought it would be a good idea to visit Peeta at his place of work.

 _Because you owe him this_ , Finnick’s voice says in my head.

And because it’s better to talk to him here than surrounded by all those people at Capitol Park. Shuddering at the alternative, I push the door open.

The bakery is, thankfully, completely empty. I ring the bell on the counter, and cross my fingers that Peeta’s mother won’t emerge from the back.

Once again, the odds are in my favor. Peeta walks in, wiping his hands on his apron. His hair is dusted with flour and sticks up in all different directions, hinting that he either slept poorly or not at all the night before. Nonetheless, he has a smile on his face, clearly ready to charm his next customer.

“Welcome to Mellark’s, how can I – oh.” Peeta stops short, his face falling a little. “Hey.”

“Hey. Um, are you busy? I think we should talk.”

“I’m pretty swamped, actually. I’ve got a huge order of cookies that I need to finish before tonight’s final event.”

“Oh, right. Well, I guess I could-“

“Do you want to help? Or we could just talk while I work.” Peeta looks at me questioningly. I silently nod. “Well, come on then. I’ll get you an apron.”

I follow Peeta into the back, where he tosses me an apron and directs me to the sink. I spend an inordinately long time washing my hands, unsure of how to begin this conversation. Thankfully, Peeta saves me from having to talk first.

“I take it Finn told you about Mags.”

“Yeah, he stopped by my house this morning. He’s lucky I even answered the door – I could barely move after playing all day yesterday,” I add, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

“I totally know how you feel. I can still remember my first bonspiel – I was pretty sure I was never going to regain feeling in my left leg.” He gives me a sympathetic smile, but an awkward silence quickly settles between us as we both try to figure out what to say next.

Peeta tries again. “Look, Katniss –I want you to know that I tried to get out of it. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable –“

“No, it’s okay,” I insist. “Really, I mean it. Anyway, we’re both adults, right? We can handle playing one game together.” I hope that repeating what I said to Finnick earlier will magically make it come true.

“Yeah, right. Exactly.”

The silence returns. This won’t do. People fight and make up all the time; why can’t we? I’ve just got to suck it up and say sorry. I twist the ends of my apron nervously as I try to phrase my apology. But just as I feel like I’ve figured out exactly what to say, Peeta beats me to the punch once more.

“I’m glad you came in, actually. I thought about calling, but I dunno, I thought you might be too mad to speak to me. I’ve been a complete asshole, and I’m sorry.”

I look at him, half in confusion and half with amusement. “You just stole my line, Peeta. I came here to apologize to _you_.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for. I’m the one who’s been unfair. I haven’t really been straight with you.” Peeta runs a floury hand through his hair with a sigh. “The truth is - God, I feel like I’m in high school again – the truth is that I like you, Katniss. I’ve basically had a crush on you from the moment I first met you.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Suddenly everything snaps into focus. A slew of conversations I’ve had over the past few weeks flashes through my head in quick bursts. Jo’s teasing. Prim’s lecture. Haymitch’s warning. Even my heart to heart with Finnick from this morning. They all knew, and they were trying to tell me. I just didn’t listen. I’d been too preoccupied with my own feelings to give Peeta’s any consideration.

I’m an idiot.

“Peeta…” I murmur. My voice sounds strained, like I’m trying to figure out how to let him down gently, when in reality I just feel horrible for being so stupidly oblivious about what was happening right in front of me. But Peeta must think it’s the former, because he waves me off.

“It’s okay, Katniss. You don’t have to say anything. I mean, if I’d just manned up and said something from the start, we wouldn't even have been in this mess. Truth is, I was trying to work up the nerve to ask you out when you showed up at the league, but when you hit your head – well, it didn't really seem like the right time,” he explains, his lips curved up in an embarrassed smile.

Peeta takes a deep breath. “And then, when I saw you that day you talked to Seneca…I kind of feel like a jerk for saying it, but it was like you getting a concussion was a real piece of luck, because I suddenly had this opportunity to get to know you better and help you out at the same time. But I didn’t want you to think I had, you know, ulterior motives for coaching you –“

“Even though you kind of did,” I can’t help but point out.

“Even though I kind of did,” he echoes sheepishly. “Though honestly, I couldn’t feel all that bad about the whole situation because I suddenly got to spend several days a week with an amazing, beautiful woman who – among other things - wasn’t weirded out by the fact that I curl. And that was awesome, even if we were just friends. But the more I got to know you, the harder it got for me to say anything, because I didn’t want to ruin what we were doing by admitting how I felt. Of course, I ended up ruining everything anyway…”

I stop him there. “Peeta, you need to know that I didn’t mean what I said to Prim. I knew I didn’t mean it almost as soon as the words came out of my mouth. It was a stupid thing to say, and I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter if you meant what you said or not. I didn’t have a right to expect anything of you given the circumstances – or behave the way I did.” I cringe at the mention of last week’s fight, wishing I could find the words to apologize for that day as well.

Peeta must notice the pained look on my face. “I’m not telling you this because I want to make you feel guilty, you know,” he says. “The last thing I need is for you to treat me like I’m wounded or something. Trust me, I’ve been there before, and it wasn’t pretty. But, I dunno, I guess I just wanted to clear the air and see if we could try the whole friend thing again. Just friends,” he adds. “I promise.”

I’m still at a bit of a loss as to how to respond to Peeta’s confession, but I figure that being friends is as a good a starting point as any. “Well, I guess I can allow it, seeing as you’re not my coach anymore,” I joke weakly.

“Ah yes, of course. Wouldn’t want to cross that line,” he deadpans.

The corners of my mouth lift ever so slightly. “Shut up,” I tell him. “You know I was kidding.”

“I know.” He extends a hand to me. “Friends?”

We shake hands. “Friends.”

Peeta smiles. “Okay, friend. Let’s get to work on these cookies, shall we?”

\---

So it turns out that baking is actually really good therapy. Five dozen sugar cookies later, we’re back to making fun of each other and joking around. It’s almost like we never fought in the first place.

Almost.

Peeta seems visibly relieved by the fact that we’re speaking again. But I can’t help still feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable about how things played out. I feel like I should say more. He did the bulk of the apologizing, but the fact remains that I wasn’t a saint either. I don’t really want to bring it up again and potentially ruin our truce, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel like a jerk. Especially now that I know he liked me the whole time.

Liked….or like? I suppose it doesn’t really matter. It’s pretty clear Peeta’s closed the door on that one.

It doesn’t help that I’ve also noticed a whole host of things about Peeta that I never had the chance to see in the context of the curling club. Like how his eyelashes look almost transparent when the light from the window hits them. Or the look of concentration that appears on his face as he frosts sugar cookies, which is so intense I wonder if he even remembers I’m in the room.

Actually, it would probably be better if he didn’t, because then I wouldn’t have to explain why I’m staring at him.

Without the backdrop of a curling rink, Peeta has transformed into a totally different person in my eyes. I realize that, kind of like he did, I don’t really know him that well at all. And the more I think about it, the more I find myself wanting to. But given what’s happened, I don’t think I have the right to ask for more than what Peeta’s willing to give.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that it takes Peeta waving his hands in front of my face for me to snap out of it. “Katniss? You okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Just thinking. I’m still a little nervous about vicing tonight. I don’t feel like I’m ready for that.” Well, at least that’s half-true.

“Well, I can give you some tips if you want,” he offers.

“Here?”

“You don’t need to be on the ice for this lesson,” he laughs. “Anyway, being a good vice isn’t all about skill and strategy. It’s about…trust. And communication.”

“What do you mean?”

Peeta eagerly steps back into coach-mode. “When the skip releases the rock, you’re in charge of the line,” he explains. “Even if the skip tries to direct things from where they are, they don’t have the benefit of your vantage point. At the end of the day, you have to trust that you are in the best position to make the final judgment on the play. It’s hard to do, especially if it means going against the skip, but you have to trust yourself to make the call. Even if it means making a mistake.”

I nod, and he continues. “But you also have to remember that you’re not alone – your lead and second are watching the rock as much as you are, which makes communication with them critical. Neither you nor the sweepers are mind readers. You need to ask them how fast the rock is going and where they think it will end up so that you can plan accordingly. You might go from Plan A to Plan D in a matter of seconds, all based on what they tell you. And you have to be vocal with them too – if the plan has changed, don’t be afraid to say so.”

I bite into a sugar cookie as I let Peeta’s advice sink in. He might be talking about curling, but his words hit home a lot more than I’d like to admit.  All that stuff about trust and communication - that’s like my kryptonite.

Peeta gives me a crooked smile. “You’re gonna be great, Katniss. It doesn’t matter that how long you’ve been playing. It’s all about how you interact with people.”

Oh, great. That’s _exactly_ what I needed to hear. “Well, we’re screwed then,” I lament, putting my head in my hands.

“No, we’re not,” he counters. He moves closer, pulling my hands down and tilting my head up so that I’m facing him directly. “You really don’t see it, do you? The effect you have. I saw how you helped Annie on the ice yesterday. You didn’t just explain the game to her – you put her at ease. And Finnick? It was his idea to promote you, not mine. He doesn’t do stuff like that after just three games. Your teammates trust you. You just need to trust yourself.”

 _That’s just the problem_ , I think. I don’t trust myself, not really. I’m not big on risk-taking. If I was, I wouldn’t just be standing here with my face so close to Peeta’s that I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes.

I would probably be kissing him.

And for a moment, that actually seems like a possibility. As oblivious as I may have been to Peeta’s feelings (or feelings in general), even I can sense that the air is suddenly charged with tension. We're so close that I can feel the warmth radiating from him as I take in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill. I can feel my skin prickle and my breathing shallow the longer we stand there, his eyes locked on mine. And when Peeta reaches down to tuck stray lock of hair behind my ear, my stomach swoops in anticipation of what is coming next. I don’t know if I should feel exhilarated or terrified. 

But nothing happens.

Peeta, not me, is the first to back away. “You…should probably go home and rest before the game,” he breathes, and the moment is gone. There’s a look of apology on his face – like he’s sorry to have gotten caught up in the moment after having promised to start over as friends. But a tiny, niggling part of me wonders if it’s more than that - if he stepped away because he doesn’t trust himself to risk going down that road again. More to the point, I wonder if he stepped away because he still doesn’t quite trust _me_.

But seeing as I don’t trust myself not to screw up our newly mended friendship by asking, I simply smile, hoping it will mask my feelings of confusion and guilt. And disappointment. May as well admit that there’s some of that, too.

“You’re right,” I agree. “If I want to be upright when we play this evening, I need to take a nap first.”

Peeta nods in understanding. “C’mon then, I’ll walk you out.”

He takes my apron and hangs it up as we head out of the kitchen. He then grabs a paper bag and throws in a few cheese buns before handing it to me. “To make up for the ones we didn’t have last week.”

I frown. “Peeta, you don’t have to -“

“I know I don’t,” he says with a smirk. “And you don’t owe me anything. Just see it as a gift from one friend to another. Besides, you’ll need something to fuel up on if we’re going to win tonight.”

I take the bag from him with a grumble. “Well, if you put it that way, I guess I can’t refuse.”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p.’ In the next instant, however, his playful expression gives way to one filled with nervous concern. “Hey. We’re good, right?”

My heart breaks the tiniest bit at his question. After all he’s said and done, why is he still asking if _I’ve_ forgiven _him_? I respond the only way I can think to in the moment – I reach over and give him a hug. He returns the embrace, and I try not to focus too much on the warmth of his breath on my neck. “We’re good,” I say softly.

I don’t really want to be the first to let go, but I put on the brightest smile I can and pull away. “See you tonight.”

As I head back to my car, I look up to see that, as usual, Peeta’s watching to make sure I’m safely on my way before returning to work. I give him a final wave as I drive off, and I can’t help but feel a sense of déjà-vu from that day he offered to be my coach.

I replay the events of the day in my head once more on the way home. Peeta and I may have made up, but I get the sense that I’ve just opened up a whole Pandora’s box of feelings that my limited emotional range is ill-equipped to deal with.

I think I’m in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: the bonspiel final event.
> 
> Warning: I won't be posting the next chapter for at least a couple of weeks. Between work and sinus infections and general craziness, I haven't had a lot of time to write (but I've outlined everything up to the end and added an extra chapter, so yay?). Even if I did, my beta is out of town on a business trip for the next little while and won't be able to edit. Long story short: I don't want the ending to suck, so please be patient.
> 
> Also, it's playoff season at my curling club - my team is playing in the D event semifinals (read: we're pretty bad, but not the worst team) this weekend. We've got a rematch against an equally crappy team that managed to beat us last time (but only because we were short a player). So...wish us luck!
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks for reading :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously, on _Hurry Hard_ :
> 
> Team Odair's string of victories landed them a spot in the beginner bonspiel final, only to have one of their teammates drop out at the last minute. Her replacement? Peeta Mellark. Katniss has a lot of awkwardness to work through with him, and all that UST is about to spill out onto the ice.
> 
> Just as a reminder: it's still the beginning of April at this point in the story.
> 
> And now, the final event.

And just when I thought this bonspiel couldn’t get any stranger, Haymitch Abernathy appears in the warm room in a kilt….and playing the fucking bagpipes.

I’d be more impressed with his performance if I actually understood what the hell was going on.  
  
Peeta notices the confused/horrified look on my face. Stifling a laugh, he leans in and whispers, “Welcome to the final event. Every bonspiel final starts like this – the bagpipe music is a nod to the game’s Scottish roots. While Haymitch plays, both teams march into the rink and all the way down from the back wall to the front hog line. Then, before the game starts, we all take a shot. Don’t worry, I already told Sae to make sure you got ginger ale instead.”  
  
I try not to focus on the chill that runs down my spine as his breath tickles my ear. “You know, you could have told me all of this before, when we were at the bakery.”  
  
“And spoil the fun, Everdeen? Where’s the fun in that? Now, come on - it’s starting.”  
  
Being new to this whole bonspiel thing, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I just follow along as Effie shoves me into a spot in line and waves us out of the warm room. Brooms in hand, we march in single file along the side wall until we reach the back of the rink, then spread out and walk toward the front hog line.  
  
Between the random bagpipe music, the ceremonial pre-game shot, and the large group of people watching the goings-on from the other side of the window, I can’t help but feel like I’ve joined some kind of cult.  
  
Haymitch finishes his song and stalks out of the rink, muttering something under his breath about how he needs a shot of his own every time he gets dragged out onto the ice for a bonspiel. I just shake my head and turn to our illustrious skip for guidance on what to do now.  “Okay, vice, you’re up,” Finnick says. “You and Jo get to flip to see who has the hammer.”  
  
I register some weird choking noise to my right, and realize that it’s Cato having a silent fit over the fact that I’ve been promoted. Thankfully, nobody pays him any mind.  
  
Jo wins the toss. “We’ll take last rock,” she declares, extending her hand to shake mine. “Good curling, Brainless.”  
  
“Good curling, Jo.” Following the etiquette, the eight of us proceed to shake hands with one another, offering the same greeting. But the competitive tension is palpable - especially with the dagger eyes Cato keeps giving me. He makes the phrase “good curling” sound like a death threat.  
  
Finnick gives my arm a light squeeze. “You ready to play the most important game of your life?” he asks jokingly. Not bothering to wait for my response, he glides down to the other end of the rink as he makes one more parting shot. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the 26th annual beginner bonspiel final begin!”

All I can do is shake my head and take my spot on the ice.

\---

 "Hey, you all right?" Peeta asks as we collect the rocks at the conclusion of yet another stolen end by Team Hawthorne. "You've been in permanent scowl mode or something."  
  
My scowl deepens at Peeta's little jab. "I totally suck at this. If I had called you guys to sweep sooner, Finn's last shot would have cleared the guard. They're killing us, and we're halfway through the game."  
  
"Don't sweat it," he replies breezily. "You're doing a lot better than I did the first time I viced a game. I mean, at least we've kept them to one point each end."  
  
"Yeah, but they've won four ends in a row!"  
  
"So? All we have to do is win the next four, and we'll be fine. If there's anything I've learned about this game, it's that anything can happen," Peeta declares as peels off his fleece.

I try not to make it too obvious as I stare at the way his shirt rides up, exposing his very well-defined abs. But all it takes is a slight cough from Peeta for me to realize that I’ve been caught. Panicked, I try to deflect my embarrassment by making fun of the fact that he’s wearing a “Game of Stones” t-shirt _._

"Winter is over, you know," I say pointedly.  
  
Peeta feigns hurt. "I'll have you know that I’m missing the season premiere for this. The things I do for love," he sighs.  
  
Although I get the reference - disturbing as the context may be - I wonder at the obvious double meaning to his words. Peeta and I have never really shied away from playful banter, but it’s always just been between the two of us. The fact that he’s apparently flirting with me, and with an audience to boot, is more than a little startling.

I try to brush it off with a joke like I usually do.  “I’m sure Finnick will make your sacrifice worthwhile, and your bromance will be all the stronger for it,” I whisper. “Also, really? Jaime Lannister? I thought you had some taste.”

"And you're a Game of Thrones fan, too? You just keep getting better and better. If you’re not careful, I might have to marry you," he whispers back.

Well then. Not the kind of response I was expecting from a guy who said he wanted another try at being _just friends_.

Annie coughs loudly, interrupting our little chat. “So, uh, I think Finnick wants me to draw around our guard…”  
  
Oh yeah. The game. Blushing, I step onto the ice and take my usual spot by the hog line, my broom at the ready. "Sorry about that, Annie.”

Peeta, however, looks utterly unaffected by her comment. He just looks at his watch as he takes his position across from me. “Congratulations, Katniss.”

“Huh?”

“Congratulations. You managed to spend a whole two minutes without obsessing about how the game is going.”

Confusion swiftly gives way to indignation. _That bastard was flirting with me on purpose._

“Something wrong?” He smiles innocently at the glare I give him in return.

“You made your point, Mellark.”

He smirks. “Good. Now let’s get back to having some fun, hm? Ready when you are, Annie!”

And just like that, the game continues.

\---  
  
Peeta ends up being rather prophetic in his declaration. Although we don’t win every single end, we manage to take three rocks in the 5th and steal another point in the 6th. Team Hawthorne gets one more point in the 7th, giving us the hammer for the final end.  
  
And it’s a good thing we have it, because Finnick’s got a really tough shot to make. Except for one of Gale’s rocks just barely touching the rings, there isn’t a single stone in the house – they’re all scattered up in front. We don’t have a lot of options at this point. Finn calls for a time-out and motions for Annie and Peeta down to join us as we examine the lay of the land.  
  
“We need two to win, but the only way I see that happening is if we do a double tap here and here,” he says, gesturing at the rocks in question with his broom. “It’s a really tough angle, though.”  
  
I’m not entirely convinced. “I dunno. If the weight isn’t exactly perfect, you risk bumping up one of their rocks. I think we’re better off drawing in through the gap between these two,” I add, lightly tapping the tops of our rocks. “Even if we only score one point, we’ve tied the game.”  
  
“She’s right,” Peeta notes. “If you’re the slightest bit heavy, you’ll knock theirs in and they’ll steal two."  
  
Finn sighs. “Well, this is the last rock of the game and it’s the best shot we have, so we’re just going to have to take that risk. I’ll just throw on the lighter side and let you guys sweep.” He looks to Peeta, who nods in assent, and then faces me. “It’s all up to you, vice. I’ll make the best shot that I can, but you make the call. Win or lose, you guys have played a great game.” With that, Finnick points to where he wants me to hold the broom, and the three of them head back up the ice, leaving me in the house.  
  
It’s all up to me. _Thanks for nothing, Finn_ , I think with a sigh. But if Finnick senses my nervousness, he doesn’t show it. He just grins and gives me a thumbs-up as he lines up his shot. Typical.  
  
Finnick pushes out of the hack, and I send up a silent prayer that he doesn’t send a bullet this way. And he doesn’t. But one look at Peeta, and I know there’s going to be a problem.  
  
“It’s light – like really light!” Peeta calls. He turns his attention to Annie, trying to encourage her as much as possible as they furiously sweep the ice. “Come on, Annie, we can do this. Sweep! All the way, hard!”  
  
I sit in a squatting position as I watch the rock travel toward me. It’s clear that the shot is so light that a tap-up is impossible – our only option is to draw in between our two guards. But if they keep sweeping, Finn’s rock won’t curl enough to make it through the gap, and the shot will be ruined.  
  
Basically, we’re screwed.  
  
With Peeta and Annie approaching the hog line, I know I have to act quickly. There isn’t time to overthink this; I just have to do it. “Off!” I yell.  
  
Finnick, who’s watching from his end, disagrees. “No, sweep!” Annie looks up questioningly, not sure who to listen to.  
  
“Off!” I yell again. “It needs to curl!”  
  
Peeta lifts his broom off the ice, and Annie follows suit. We collectively hold our breath as we watch Finn’s stone pass the guard with less than an inch of space between them. Unable to relax just yet, all three of us sweep as hard as we can as soon as the rock is clear.  
  
And when the stone finally grinds to a halt, it’s halfway inside the outer ring. It might not be on the button, but it’s enough to win the end. A grin breaks out across my face as I catch my breath.  
  
“We did it!” Annie cries. “That was amazing.”  
  
Finnick appears at my side. “Great line call, vice,” he says, giving me a high five. “You handled that like a pro.”  
  
I glance at Peeta as I make my reply. “I just needed to trust myself, I guess.” Peeta says nothing, but he doesn’t have to. His smile says it all.  
  
Johanna interrupts our little on-ice victory party. “So what happens now?” she asks. “Do we go into extra ends?”  
  
Before any of us can reply, Effie bursts in with a gleeful look in her eyes. “This is so exciting!” she squeals delightedly. “Come, come! I’ll explain what happens next in the warm room.”  
  
Peeta, Gale, and Finnick exchange looks. They look just as confused as us newbies, but merely shrug and follow Effie out of the rink.  
  
Once we’re all in the warm room, Effie finally clues us into what’s going on – but not without a lesson in curling history first. "All curling clubs have different policies governing tie games. In most cases, the teams will play extra ends until the tie is broken. In others, the tie is broken by what we call ‘skip rocks’: the skips on each team each deliver a single rock, and the team whose stone is closest to the button-"  
  
“Get to the point, Trinket. The sooner this game ends, the sooner the teams can finally have a drink.”  
  
Effie glares at the source of the interruption. Haymitch, still donning his kilt, raises his glass in salute.  
  
“As I was about to say,” she continues with a huff, “we at Capitol Park settle tie games for in-house events like this using skip rocks. One stone per team. No sweeping is allowed, but the player who throws is allowed to have one of their teammates stand in the house and hold the broom. The team whose rock is closest to the center pin will be declared the winner of the game.”  
  
The room buzzes a bit as everyone takes in this new information, but I still don’t see why she’s brought us back in here. Peeta’s told me about tie-breakers like this, but it’s not a big deal – I mean, they call it skip rocks for a reason. The skips are the ones who throw since they’re the most experienced.  
  
“However.” Effie’s voice brings us back to her attention. Apparently she was pausing for dramatic effect. She clears her throat and begins again. “However, because this is a very special anniversary year for Capitol, those of us organizing this year’s bonspiel have decided to add another twist: whoever is selected to throw for each team must be a Tribute. I’ll give each team a couple of minutes to decide who will be representing their respective groups. Good luck!”  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Cato and Brutus playing rock-paper-scissors for the honors, with Jo standing next to them looking annoyed as hell. Something tells me that she's not happy about this new development.  
  
That makes two of us. A feeling of dread sinks into the pit of my stomach as I process the ramifications of this little rule change.  
  
Before I even have a chance to ask Annie if she wants to represent our team, she beats me to the punch. "You're doing this, Katniss. There’s no comparison – you’re a much stronger player than I am. You've been on fire this whole competition."  
  
Finnick agrees. “Much as I would love to have you two flip a coin for it, I have to side with Annie here. You feel like you’re up for it?”  
  
I don’t reply, but instead look to Peeta for his opinion. “You can do this, Katniss,” he assures me. “It’ll be just like our practices.”  
  
"Does that mean you'll go in there with me?"  
  
"You want us to go in together?"  
  
There's no question in my mind about what I want. "Together."  
  
Peeta looks to Finnick, who nods approvingly. "Okay. Let's do it."  
  
Effie rings the bell to get everyone's attention once more, calling on the teams to send up their representatives. Peeta and I step forward, followed by Cato and a rather exasperated looking Gale.  
  
"Since Team Hawthorne won five ends to Team Odair's three, they will go first," Effie announces. "Haymitch and I will be on the ice to measure the stone's distance from the pin, at which point we will clear the house, giving Team Odair an opportunity to throw. Now, let's begin!"  
  
We march back into the rink, which feels considerably colder even after only being off the ice for a few minutes. Effie instructs us to select a rock and bring it with us to the far end of the rink. I guess she wants our audience in the warm room to have the best possible view of the action.  
  
Not like that adds to the pressure or anything.  
  
I give Cato plenty of room as he prepares to deliver his stone. Despite Jo's less than complimentary assessment of his skills, he really is one of the best players in the beginner league. He slides gracefully out of the hack, keeping his body low as he zeroes in on Gale's broom. I can't help but be impressed. If only his attitude were as good as his technique.  
  
I can tell that it will be a good shot as soon as he releases it. Although it's hard to tell from all the way back here, it looks like the rock ends up stopping not far behind the t-line. Haymitch and Effie step forward to measure, confirming that the stone is two feet from the center pin.  
  
Crap. That's going to be tough to beat. Nonetheless, I try to stay cool. "Really nice shot."  
  
Cato brushes off the compliment, and instead cocks his head at me with a smug grin. "You're up, Girl on Fire. Let's see you do better than that." He doesn't bother to wait for a response; he just slides down the ice to give Gale a high-five.

Once the house is clear, Effie signals that it’s my turn. _I can do this_ , I think to myself as I step onto the ice. But then I see the crowd of people watching intently from the warm room. I see Prim, her nose practically pressed to the glass in excitement. I see Jo, looking somewhat torn between rooting for her teammates and cheering on her roommate. I see Finnick and Annie – wait, are they holding hands? – bouncing up and down in nervous anticipation.

Caught off guard by the intensity of the moment, I slip a little as I take my spot in the hack. I don’t fall over completely, but my brief loss of balance worries Peeta enough to leave his position in the house and glide to where I am. He moves so quickly that I almost don’t realize what he’s done until I feel his hand supporting the small of my back as I regain my composure.

“You all right?” he asks worriedly. “For a second there, I thought I was going to have to get your helmet back out.”

“If it meant blocking out the view of all those people staring at me from the warm room, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” I sigh. “I feel like I’m in a fishbowl or something.”

“All those people were watching you earlier, you know,” he points out gently. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of – you know how to make this shot. I’ve seen you make it so many times now.”

“I’m not afraid. I just don’t like having an audience.”

“Forget them, then. Just focus on me. Just the two of us in practice. No one else is here.” He slowly slides backwards toward the far end of the sheet, never taking his eyes off me. “It’s just you and me, Katniss. Nobody else matters.”

Peeta reclaims his position in the house and plants his broom in front of him. I step into the hack and go through the routine he’s taught me.

 _Square your body. Slow your breathing. Visualize the line between your foot and the broom. Keep your hips level._ As I crouch down, I take a deep breath and close my eyes, adding one more item to my list.

 _Just focus on Peeta._ I will the world around me to dissolve. All that matters is the two of us.

Adjusting the grip on my broom one last time, I push out of the hack. “One...two…three...”I quietly count to myself, twisting the stone gently and releasing it with the lightest touch I can muster.

I follow the rock as far as I can, gliding along as I slowly come to a stop halfway down the sheet. But once I’ve stopped, I keep my eyes trained on the ice, unable to watch what happens next. _It’s too light_ , I think. I didn’t give it enough power, I’m sure of it.

But then the sounds of cheering and applause ring out – albeit muffled by the glass – from within the warm room.  When I dare to look up, I see Peeta practically running down the sheet toward me.

“That was incredible! Effie and Haymitch don’t even have to measure. Your shot is covering the pin!”

It takes a second for his words to register. “Wait, what does that even mean?”

“It means we won!” Peeta helps me up, only to sweep me into a hug the moment I’m in a standing position. 

“Are you serious? I could have sworn my shot was light.”

Peeta laughs at the look of incredulity on my face. “Trust me, Katniss. You did it. We won!”

My mind finally gets with the program. “We won. We won? Oh my God, we won!” At this point, we’re both stupidly giddy, laughing and hugging as we excitedly bounce in place. “I actually thought it wasn’t going to make it!”

Peeta is jubilant. “I knew you had it as soon as you let the stone go. You were amazing!”

“No way! I couldn’t have done this without you!”

Grinning, he crushes me to him in another massive hug. For a few seconds we just stand there in an embrace, reveling in the fact that we get to celebrate this victory together. When I look up at him, though, there’s something different in his expression. The euphoria of the moment has given way to something a lot more serious.

Something, I’m finally willing to admit, that we both really, really want.

Peeta searches my gaze for any sign that he should stop, smiling gently when he finds none. My heart flutters as I feel his arms slide up my back. And while I’m not normally one for PDA, right now I can’t bring myself to care. I’m not even thinking about anything but Peeta and the anticipation of feeling his lips on mine as he slowly leans down. Everything else is forgotten: the brooms at our feet, the lingering chill in the air, the crowd watching us from the warm room…

…the fact that we’re on a sheet of ice and I’m still wearing a slider…

And of course, just as I close my eyes so that we can finish what we started in the Mellark Bakery, my slider-clad foot slips. In the split second that follows, only one thought passes through my mind: _Fuck, I’m going to get concussed again._ Peeta, apparently worried about the same thing, pulls me closer in an effort to keep me stable. Instead, we both crash gracelessly to the ice, me on top of him.

“I’m never going to stop owing you, am I?” I joke as I quickly roll off Peeta and stand up. I turn to offer him a hand. “Need some help getting up? It’s the least I can-”

My words stop short as I realize that he’s still lying on the ice with his eyes closed.

“Peeta?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY. Not just for posting two months late, but for the ending of this latest chapter. But more for being so slow to update. Blame my beta. And the tiny human inside me that is sucking up all my energy. 
> 
> If it makes you feel any better, I've already started the last chapter. I promise, promise, promise that it won't take me another two months to post the conclusion.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with me for this long, I commend you. 
> 
> Immense thanks are due to dealan, best sister/beta in the world, for kicking my ass into gear.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, but I borrow with love.
> 
> And now, the not-so-thrilling-but-hopefully-fluffy-to-your-liking conclusion to this story.

One week.

It's been one week since that last time I was here at the club, but it feels like a lifetime. Part of me feels like a bit of an idiot for waiting so long to come back - after all, the last time I was here, I led our team to bonspiel victory. The rest of me is still feeling pretty mortified by everything that happened after, and is eager to get out of here as soon as humanly possible. Really, the only reason I’m even here is to pick up my slider and grippers. I don't know if I'll ever even use them again, but Haymitch made it abundantly clear in his email blast that any items not picked up today would be thrown out, and I didn't feel ready to let them go.

I take a deep breath and push open the doors to the club. The lights are on, but nobody seems to be around - not surprising, I suppose, considering that the season is already over. What _does_ surprise me, however, is how disappointed I am to find the place deserted. It dawns on me that I've actually missed coming here; I've spent so much time here over the past few weeks that it's become a part of my routine. I guess this place crept up on me.

If I'm honest, though, that's not the only reason I'm disappointed. I was kind of hoping to run into Peeta today, too. We haven’t spoken since that night; he didn’t respond to my calls or texts, and after a couple days I kind of just gave up. I don’t begrudge him avoiding me, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t upset – or confused. I still don’t really have a clear idea of where things stand between us. I guess I’ll never know.

 _It’s okay,_ I tell myself. _It’s probably better this way. Just cut the cord – grab your stuff and go. You’re too busy to get wrapped up in shit like this._

Somehow, the words ring hollow.

It doesn’t take long to locate my stuff; the small duffel sits alone on the table, exactly where I left it the night of the bonspiel. But as I move to pick it up, my eyes are drawn to the other side of the warm room window. I’m taken aback by what I see: the rink, only a few days ago a bright white sheet of ice, has been reduced to a watery slab of concrete. The paint from the rings is gone too, with only scant traces dribbling down the side toward the drain at the rink's edge.  
  
"Kind of depressing, isn't it?"  
  
I’m so engrossed by the sight of the rink that I jump at the sound of the voice behind me. I turn around slowly to find Peeta standing there, a nervous smile on his face as he fiddles with the mop in his hand. "I'm like, in mourning for weeks after we turn off the compressor for the season."  
  
Clad in a plaid button-down, jeans, and tall rubber boots, Peeta looks more like he's ready for a day of fly-fishing than hanging out at a curling club. For some reason, I had pictured him looking all sickly and depressed – which is stupid, of course, considering the nature of his injury – so I’m startled by how normal and healthy and _good_ his appearance is. I gawk at him, and how his muscles of his forearms strain against the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel as he leans on the mop. He must have worked up a sweat from whatever he’s been doing, too, and I watch as a bead of perspiration drips slowly from his forehead…

He clears his throat, and I realize that I’ve probably been staring at him for a good thirty seconds or more. Flustered, I search for something to say, but only manage to blurt out the obvious. "You're back."  
  
The corners of Peeta's mouth upturn slightly at my outburst. "Yeah, it’s actually my first time out of the house in days. Been resting and all that. The doc told me I'm not allowed back on the ice until next season, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to come over since it's all melting anyway," he says, gesturing to the rink by way of explanation. "Not that Haymitch would've allowed me to stay home...he showed up on my doorstep this morning and brought me here personally. Injured or not, he said he expects me to help him with the ice at the beginning and end of each season...always complains that he's 'an ice maker, not a fuckin' Picasso.'" Peeta rolls his eyes as he delivers that last comment, using air quotes for emphasis. "So I paint the rings in September, and take care of cleanup in April."  
  
"You're a painter, too?"  
  
Peeta shrugs. "I figure that if I can decorate cakes and cookies all day long, I can handle painting a few bull’s-eyes on a slab of cement." He tugs at my hand with his free one. "Come on. It looks like the water's almost done draining."

I drop my things and follow him out of the warm room. I allow myself to relish the feel of my hand in his as we walk onto the surface of the rink, fingers entwined. _God, I’ve missed him._ He must feel awkward about it though, since he shoots me an embarrassed smile and drops my hand when he goes to lean the mop against the wall. Not wanting to be too obvious in my disappointment, I simply offer a small smile of my own and wander toward the center of the room.   

"Wow. The acoustics are totally different with the ice gone," I observe, trying to make conversation. "You could have a decent concert in here and not have to worry about mics or anything."  
  
"That doesn't sound like a bad idea. We could probably raise some money for the club in the off-season that way," he agrees.

I don’t really have anything to add, so we lapse into silence. Peeta walks to where I am, and for a minute we just kind of stand there, listening to the drips of melting ice as the last of it drains away. The humid air, so unfamiliar in a space like this, feels thick with unspoken tension.

As always, Peeta is the first to speak. "I didn't know if I would see you again."

I shrug, trying to come off as non-committal. "I called. You didn't answer." _You changed your mind. If I were in your shoes, I would have, too_ , I add silently.

Peeta offers a sheepish smile, jamming his hands into pockets as he shifts from side to side. "Yeah, about that...I kind of broke the cardinal rule of curling: don't keep your phone in your back pocket. I figured it wouldn't be an issue for the tiebreaker since I was just gonna be holding the broom, but then we were out on the ice, and then when I fell - it's, uh, still out for repair.  I wasn’t allowed to use any electronics for a couple of days anyway, so I’ve been kinda living off the grid. I know it’s a stupid, shitty excuse not to call, but between that, and trying to get someone to cover my shifts at the bakery, and…”Peeta trails off. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I guess I’ve been a bad friend.”

I gape at his admission. Just when I thought it was impossible for me to feel like more of an asshole, he goes and apologizes – again – for things that aren’t even his fault. For God’s sake, the man sustained a head injury to keep me from getting another concussion, and I was all but ready to write him off. I don’t even know where to begin.

“Well, at least I know you don’t hate me for what happened.” _Very smooth, Everdeen._

Peeta, thankfully, takes the bait. “Hate the new darling of Capitol Park? Never!” He lets out a breath, relieved that the tension between us seems to have broken - some of it, anyway. “Speaking of which, I never got the full story of how things went after.”

“Ha! You mean, after you were carted off to the hospital? Or after Johanna literally dragged Cato up to the front of the room by the ears to accept his pin during the awards ceremony because he was such a sore loser?”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. I’m pretty sure Effie’s still in shock over the massive breach in etiquette. On the upside, it took the attention away from how I almost got you killed,” I note sardonically. Peeta laughs, and for a second it feels like everything’s back to normal. “I really am sorry for that, you know,” I add.  
  
"Sorry for what?” he asks. “Sorry that I fell? It's not a big deal."  
  
"Not a big deal? Peeta, you were _unconscious_ -"  
  
"That was less than a minute," he argues.  
  
"You had to be carried off the ice!” I huff. “I wasn't even allowed to help. By the time I even realized what had happened, Gale and Finn were pushing me out of the way. Then Delly and Thresh insisted on taking you to the hospital themselves so that I could accept my stupid prize. They wouldn't even let me to go into the warm room until you'd left the building so they could be sure I wouldn't try to go with you."  
  
"Really?" Peeta asks, dumbfounded.  
  
My cheeks burn at the memory of banging on the window, yelling at the guys to let me out as they escorted Peeta  - too dazed, it seemed, to even know who I was – out the door and toward the main entrance. I'm not about to relive my mortification by sharing that little bit of information, so I brush it off with a shrug as I try to regain my composure. "I was, uh, kinda pissed off about the whole thing. You're more important - you being okay, I mean - that seemed more important than some stupid awards ceremony. But everyone was adamant that I stay...so I stayed."

Peeta says nothing, but the bemused expression that appears on his face rankles me, causing my blush to deepen. "What?" I ask, unable to keep the defensive tone from my voice.  
  
"Nothing, nothing," he replies with a small chuckle. "It just sounds like you have a very…vivid memory of what happened that evening. It's like you could replay the whole night in your mind." I smack him on the arm in response, but he ducks out of my way. “Hey, quit it! I meant that as a compliment.”

"Yes, well," I sniff, "I wasn’t fortunate enough to suffer from retrograde amnesia, like some people I know.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m _lucky_ that I got a Grade 3 concussion?” he teases. “And here I thought you were trying to apologize for that just now.”

I cross my arms in front of me protectively. I know he’s just kidding, but I’m more bothered by his last comment than he realizes. He’s right. I am totally fucking this up. In all honesty, I shouldn’t just be apologizing to him; I should be thanking him. Not that that would be any easier - I mean, how do you thank someone for sustaining a head injury on your behalf?

Of course, being the kind of person who is incapable of saying the right thing unless it’s scripted in a lesson plan, I can’t even manage a simple ‘thank you.’ Instead, I just repeat what I said after we fell – before I noticed he was hurt. “It’s just, I feel like I’ll never stop owing you.”

Peeta looks at me, perplexed. This is clearly not the direction he saw this conversation going. “What are you talking about, Katniss?”

I shake my head, eyes downcast. At this point, all I want to do is run and hide. “It’s stupid. Forget it.”

I turn to walk out, but Peeta catches my hand, stopping me. “No, stay. I don’t understand. Where is this all coming from?”

I sigh, unsure of how to articulate exactly what’s been eating at me for the past week. The feeling of owing him is there – that much is true - but there’s much more going on than a simple issue of repaying a debt. Things that I’m definitely not feeling brave enough to admit openly.

“I owe you,” I repeat once more. “The lessons. The cheese buns. Even the curling gear.” I gesture helplessly to the duffel that I left in the warm room. “All of it.”

“Katniss-“

“No, you don’t get it,” I say. I’m on a roll at this point, and the words tumble out of my mouth whether I want them to or not. “You bailed me out with Seneca when I got my concussion. You took care of me when I got drunk. You apologized when we fought, even though I still don’t think you really did anything wrong. And on top of all this, you literally took a fall for me.” My shoulders slump, defeated. “I feel guilty. I can’t help it. You’ve done so much for me, and all I’ve managed to do is get you hurt. You deserve so much more than that.”

After what feels like an eternity, Peeta speaks up. “Wow,” he says. “You’ve really had a lot of time to think about this, haven’t you?”

My hands fly up into the air. “Seriously? _That’s_ what you got from my little speech?”

He smiles at me, his expression earnest. “Katniss, you don’t owe me anything. At all. I mean, sure, I could have done without the head injury, but I’d do it again if it meant protecting you. I really care – I mean, you’re my friend. Of _course_ I would have done that for you. Besides, you’d just recovered from that concussion – if you’d hurt yourself again, that would have been a disaster.”

“I know, but-“

“No buts,” he interrupts. Peeta pauses, looking about the room as he works out what to say next. After a moment, he turns back to me. “Okay, let’s try this,” he offers.  “If you’re so concerned about owing me, how about you put that memory of yours to good use? You might be able to help me work out exactly what happened.”

Peeta takes a step closer. Something in his eyes has changed, and while I can’t quite pinpoint what it is, my insides flutter at the sight. “See, the last time I was standing in this room, it was in this exact spot. With you.” I swallow hard as I’m transported back to the seconds I’ve replayed in my head countless times over the past week.

He takes another step toward me. My heart is racing, thumping so hard I can practically hear it beating in my ears.  Seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil, Peeta presses on. “There was this moment, right before I hit the ice, and I think it was real, but my memory is still a bit fuzzy and I'm not sure."  
  
My stomach twists. "And?"

"And...I think I was about to kiss you. Real or not real?"  
  
I hesitate to answer, but the look on my face must give Peeta the confirmation he's looking for. Emboldened, he continues. "And you...you wanted me to kiss you. Real or not real?"  
  
Another wave of embarrassment washes over me, and I look away. I don’t really know if I want to admit the truth to him when it’s so clear that he doesn’t feel that way about me anymore. With all his talk about friends, this is probably just his way of giving me an out so that he doesn’t have to let me down gently.   

Peeta tilts my head up so that I am facing him. He gives me a sad smile of apology, as if in anticipation of the rejection he’s about to deliver. I brace myself for the inevitable.

"I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like this. It’s just - I know I promised to keep things on a ‘just friends’ level, and I swear, all you have to do is say the word and I’ll never bring it up again. But if this isn’t all just wishful thinking-”

Wait, what?

“-and what I think happened that night was real-“

Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Oh my God. _Oh my God._  

“-and if you haven’t changed your mind…”

I shake my head in disbelief. We are both complete idiots. I would find this adorable if not for the fact that Peeta looks so downtrodden. I have to do something.

“Please. I just need to -”

And suddenly he’s not saying anything at all, because I’m kissing him.

Peeta stiffens at the contact of my cold, chapped lips on his, and for a second I worry that I’ve misread the situation. But just as I start to pull away, he brings our mouths crashing back together, wiping away my doubts and swallowing my apologies before I can issue them. His hands wind their way into my braid and mine grasp for purchase along the broad planes of his back as we melt further and further into each other. And it’s all awkward bumping of noses and crashing of teeth and clashing of tongues and holy shit, it is _glorious_.

We eventually break away, our foreheads resting lightly against one another as we gasp for air. After a few moments, I finally manage to give Peeta an answer to his question.

“Real,” I breathe.  
  
He lets out a laugh and draws me in closer. Eyes shining hopefully, he brings his palm up to cradle my face. "You like me,” he whispers. “Real or not real?"  
  
I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his once more.  
  
Peeta smiles against my mouth. "Thanks for clearing that up."

 

\---

 

"So, you give any thought to next season?" Peeta asks as we walk back into the warm room, hand in hand.

"Honestly? I'm still not quite sure,” I say, rubbing my thumb over his knuckle as I mull over his question. “I have to admit that I enjoy it, but I'd have to crunch some numbers to see if I can afford the membership dues for next winter."

"Well, if it helps, the club offers an Olympic discount for those curlers that started at the end of the season, so you'd actually be paying less. And if you sign up for two years, they give you another discount on top of that..."

"Ever the salesman, I see," I joke, thinking back to when we met at the Open House.

Peeta blushes, but recovers quickly. “Actually, I was kind of hoping you’d fill the spot we’ve got open on my Friday Mixed team. As your former coach, I’d say I’ve got dibs on the rookie of the year,” he teases, gathering me onto his lap as we plop down on the couch in front of the fireplace.

“That’s awfully presumptuous of you, I think. I mean, doesn’t next season not start until October? That’s six months from now….you might have gotten sick of me by then,” I point out.

“I have serious doubts about that, Everdeen. If anything, I intend to keep you around for as long as possible.”

“But with the curling season over, our common bond is broken,” I quip. “Our – whatever this is – may not survive the summer.”

Peeta chuckles. “I’d invite you to join the summer soccer league I organize for members in the off-season, but I’m banned from all contact sports. I guess I’ll have to find something else to pass the time.”

“Ever thought about trying archery? I could hook you up with a really good instructor.”

“That’s not quite what I had in mind,” he murmurs suggestively, “but I’ll think about it.” He moves to nuzzle my neck, and a sigh escapes me involuntarily. I'm not one for PDA, but think I could get used to this.

“Oi!” a voice calls out, interrupting our little moment.

Peeta and I spring apart like teenagers who have been caught by their parents. Haymitch smirks. “I’m not paying you to make out by the fireplace, boy.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not getting paid, then, old man,” Peeta retorts. “Anyway, it’s all done.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, just get a room,” Haymitch says with a wave. He turns to me. “Fancy seeing you here, Sweetheart. I take it you got my message.”

Peeta looks at me questioningly. “Message?”

“Yeah, you know, the ‘claim your shit from the Lost and Found by today or it’s going to Goodwill’ message he sent to the club’s email list. Although,” I muse, “I don’t know how helpful a message like that really was, Haymitch, considering that you sent it this morning.”

“Well then,” he counters, “I guess it’s a good thing you’re the only one who still had their stuff left lying around. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some bar inventory to do down in storage.” And with that, Haymitch abruptly walks away.

My brow furrows in confusion. What was _that_ all about?

Peeta gives me a look. “You know,” he says, “I never got that email he was talking about.” His eyes glint with amusement.

“Wait, does that mean-?”

“I think so.”

We look at each other in disbelief for a moment before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

It takes a minute for the giggles to subside. But when they do, Peeta quietly takes my hands in his, suddenly pensive. “Going back to what we were discussing earlier…I know we were joking around just now, but I’m serious. I really like you, Katniss, and I don’t want to have to wait until October to see you again,” he says. “Maybe we could use the off-season to see where this goes?”

A smile plays on my lips. “I dunno,” I say with mock uncertainty. “The idea of seeing you in a context that doesn’t involve ice and brooms might be too much of a shock to my system.”

He nods in agreement. “We’ll start easy, then. Ice cream parlors, skating rinks…the Home Depot…”

I laugh. “I like the way you think, Mellark.”

“So, you’ll allow it?”

I wrap my arms around him.

“I’ll allow it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was probably a moment (or a lot of moments) over the past few months where I feared I would never complete this fic; between pregnancy and job and general RL stuff, I haven't had much time. On the upside, tiny human arrived safely into this world a couple months ago and has brought nonstop joy ever since, distracting me from the fact that I've basically stopped sleeping. Yay?
> 
> Suffice to say that under the circumstances, it is a small miracle that I managed to finish this. That said, I appreciate all of the kudos, comments, and friendly nudges of encouragement I've gotten as you have patiently waited for me to update. There is so much talent in this fandom that I really didn't expect this story to get the kind of response it did...so, thanks. :)
> 
> Epilogue to follow...maybe? Eventually? I have some ideas left for this universe, but we'll just have to see what happens.
> 
> Thank you again for reading.


	12. Out of Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Future take. Katniss and Peeta have a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever since I've written for this universe, but curling season just started and I got inspired to write a quick drabble. Might write another later...who knows? Regardless, hope you enjoy.

"Oh god, I don't think I can handle any more," Katniss moaned as she struggled to rise to her feet.

Peeta chuckled. "I know. I can usually do this all day, and now I can barely handle two hours. I'm out of practice."

"Two hours? My legs feel like they're about to give out, and we've only been at it for one," she complained. "It's the lunging that's doing me in. I don't know if I'll even be able to walk tomorrow."

"Well, it's been a while...for both of us. Just be careful," Peeta cautioned gently. "You fell pretty hard on your knees just now. I don't want you to get hurt." Helping his girlfriend up, he pulled her close. "Unless you'd rather be on your knees," he murmured suggestively in her ear.

"Don't count on it," Katniss replied, swatting at his shoulder. Unable to resist responding in kind, she gave him a light kiss on the lips. "But if you're very good, we'll see what I can do. Now do me a favor and bury your next one deep so we can finish this."

"Ugh," he groaned, pulling her in for another kiss. "You're going to kill me, and we've only just started-"

"Oh for fuck's sake!" A voice rang out. The pair sprang apart, turning to see Johanna tapping her foot impatiently at the other end of the ice. Are you two idiots going to be like this for the next seven months? Because it's not too late for me to find a new team," she grumbled.

"Sorry!" they singsonged, clearly not sorry at all.

"Whatever, just hurry up and throw already!" Johanna shouted back. Shaking her head, she settled into the house and placed her broom down to direct Peeta's shot. Fucking curling speak was turning Brainless into a total pervert, Jo thought to herself. Who knew she'd find it to be such a turn on?

It was going to be a long season.


End file.
